But the beach grass, fragile, yielding Like a seine whose mesh entangles, Binds their heaving bulks together - In a fibrous web of rootlets; Gripping fiercely for each foothold Yielding grudgingly and battling Till the storm winds howl in fury, And the baffled ocean smothers Futile wrath in foam and roaring, Till the lowly beach grass triumphs; Holds in magic chains the forces Of ungovernable chaos. Beach grass drawing life and nurture From the sterile sands, a living Energy from out the desert. Hardy warrior, silent tamer Of primeval urgings rampant, Barrier to the clamorous ocean, Staunch preserver of the landscape, Not content with curbing surges Or restraining restless sand dunes, How you bless that sterile desert With your wild and pensive beauty; Cover o’er its savage harshness With the mantle of your verdure Till your patient, steadfast purpose Glorifies the vanquished sea shore. THE SWAMP HERON “Quawk”, comes that harshly guttural note In the night stillness, hear it? “Quawk”. A hoarse “good hunting” from the throat Of a night heron, feathered gawk, Ungainly, droll, the awkward child And threadbare outcast of the wild. ’Tis not his custom to intrude Where others are, while on his way To his beloved solitude Nor has he overmuch to say; His only greeting is a squawk But filled with cheer, a friendly “Quawk”. Thanks, humble neighbor of the moors For such philosophy is rare; Though neither grace nor charm are yours You envy no one, nor compare Their lissome poise - your stilt like walk! Their lilting song - your throaty “Quawk”. He knows, illfavored bird of night The finest feathers in the dark Are little worth, nor pleasing flight Nor beauty’s form with none to mark; Contented but to nightly stalk His supper like a wise old quawk. THE THROES OF CREATION Crash and a smother of foam Drowned in a booming roar! That is the way the surge comes home Pounding along the shore. Hiss and a seething tongue Laps at the crumbling sand! That is the way the sea has wrung Room from the grudging land. Rasp of the undertow As its white tongue flays the beach, Flensing the pebbles to and fro Into its treacherous reach. Ever the sob and moan Of the tortured ledges rings Grinding to dust and welding to stone Ever the hammer swings. Never a solid ground Nor a fixed and steadfast place; Shoals new risen and islands drowned Sculpture the landscape’s face. Thus were the corners laid For the continents and the seas; That is the way the world was made Out of such conflicts as these.