Whiter foam than thine, O wave, Wavelet never wore, Stainless wave; and now you lave The far and stormless shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore! Who bade thee go, O bluest wave, Beyond the tempest's roar? Who bade thee flow, O fairest wave, Unto the golden shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore? Who waved a hand, O purest wave? A hand that blessings bore, And wafted thee, O whitest wave, Unto the fairest shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore? Who winged thy way, O holy wave, In days and days of yore? And wept the words: "O winsome wave, This earth is not thy shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore? Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave -- The strength a great soul wore -- And said: "Float up to God! my wave, His heart shall be thy shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore? Who said to thee, O poor, weak wave: "Thy wail shall soon be o'er, Float on to God, and leave me, wave, Upon this rugged shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore? And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, Dost dream of days of yore? Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, Upon the golden shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore? Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, Beyond the wild storm's roar! I watch amid the storm, bright wave, Like rock upon the shore; Ever -- ever -- evermore! Sing at the feet of God, white wave, Song sweet as one of yore! I would not bring thee back, heart wave, To break upon this shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore! * * * * * "No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; My mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone; Just like a temple when the priest has gone, And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults Are buried deep in silence; when the lights That flashed on altars died away in dark, And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom Which seem to linger in the holy place -- The shadows of the sinners who passed there, And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon The marble floor memorials of their tears." And while he spake, his words sank low and low, Until they hid themselves in some still depth He would not open; and his face was sad. When he spoke thus, his very gentleness Passed slowly from him, and his look, so mild, Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. His words, as tender as a rose's smile, Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. Who knows? perhaps it did!