Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal

sea?

Somehow my soul seems suddenly free From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion

of sin,

By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothingwithholding and free

Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!

Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,

Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won

God out of knowledge and good out of infinite

pain

And sight out of blindness and purity out of

stain.

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery

sod,

Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness

of God:

I will fly in the greatness of God as the marshhen flies

In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies:

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By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the

sod

I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of

God:

Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness

within

The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of

Glynn.

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea

Pours fast full soon the time of the flood-tide

must be:

Look how the grace of the sea doth go

About and about through the intricate channels that flow

Here and there

Everywhere,

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Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks

and the low-lying lanes,

And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow In the rose-and-silver evening glow.

Farewell, my lord Sun!

The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the

marsh-grass stir;

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Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward

whirr ;

Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease

to run;

And the sea and the marsh are one.

How still the plains of the waters be!

The tide is in his ecstasy.

The tide is at his highest height;

And it is night.

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters sleep

Roll in on the souls of men,

But who will reveal to our waking ken

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep?

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And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in.

On the length and breadth of the marvellous

marshes of Glynn.

1879.

Sidney Lanier.

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE
EUGANEAN HILLS

MANY a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on

Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above, the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail and cord and plank
Till the ship has almost drank

Death from the o'erbrimming deep;
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as, ever still
Longing with divided will,
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on

O'er the unreposing wave

To the haven of the grave.

What, if there no friends will greet;
What, if there no heart will meet
His with love's impatient beat;
Wander wheresoe'er he may,
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress

In friendship's smile, in love's caress?
Then 't will wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no:
Senseless is the breast, and cold,
Which relenting love would fold;
Bloodless are the veins and chill
Which the pulse of pain did fill;
Every little living nerve

That from bitter words did swerve

Round the tortured lips and brow,

Are like sapless leaflets now

Frozen upon December's bough.
On the beach of a northern sea
Which tempests shake eternally,

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As once the wretch there lay to sleep,
Lies a solitary heap,

One white skull and seven dry bones,
On the margin of the stones,

Where a few gray rushes stand,
Boundaries of the sea and land:
Nor is heard one voice of wail
But the sea-mews, as they sail
O'er the billows of the gale;
Or the whirlwind up and down
Howling, like a slaughtered town,
When a king in glory rides

Through the pomp of fratricides:
Those unburied bones around

There is many a mournful sound;
There is no lament for him,

Like a sunless vapor, dim,

Who once clothed with life and thought
What now moves nor murmurs not.

Ay, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide agony:
To such a one this morn was led
My bark, by soft winds piloted.
'Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the pæan

With which the legioned rooks did hail
The sun's uprise majestical:

Gathering round with wings all hoar,
Through the dewy mist they soar

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even,

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