The dawn rolled in with rush and roar, And blubbered with an outworn groan, And up the sand-dunes’ terraced sides In layers were the waters blown. At last the drift of wreckage came; What matters that to you or me? Wild, with the east wind in their teeth, The hounds of Death ran out to sea. “OUTSIDE.” O the rolling sea is the place for me, With the whine of the wind at play, And the skies a-brim to their hazy rim With the dream of a summer’s day; With the dip and drip and the shifting whip Of the sail in the silvery blue, And the swish and blow of the summer-snow From the hills that are lost to view. O the rolling sea is the place for me, With its hush and its rush and swirl; With its bugling quest to the sloping west, And its flurry and drift and whirl; With its shifting race and the salt in my face, With its spill and its gusty rhyme, With its mermaids fair, with the dusk in their hair, And its drench and its mystic chime. O the rolling sea is the place for me, With the kittiwakes swaying by, On their lyric wings where the breaker swings, In the trail of their haunting cry; Where the whispering lip and the ragged rip, With the kiss of the tide entwine; Where the billows crash and the rainbows flash, And the heart of the world is mine. OFF. The wind is where we want it with a hornpipe in its heels, The harbor-bar is spouting like a whale; There’s the flash and splash of morning spun behind a dozen keels, And a nixie-band a-whistling in the sail. There’s a rolling path of glory for a hundred leagues or more, With a streak of tumbling shadows breaking through; O these foaming hills of wonder, where the siren trumpets roar, While the seraphs are a-singing in the blue! O the huddle of the waters, O the babble of the brine, And the swing and tip and dip that sets you free; With this sad old world behind us, and the top-sail dripping wine, O the deep true-hearted solace of the sea! DAWN IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR. But half awake, the ripples twine, And brimming, tangle into wine; More vibrant than adoring strings, A random pennon slowly bears away; The fleet, alert to greet the day, In buoyant beauty, spreads its wings, With glowing expectation, preened for flight, An airy phantasy of light. In raptured unison the morning nears; The Oreads on distant hills have heard the ripple-song, On, past the gilded Gurnet, trails the snowy-pinioned throng, Old Saquish far behind, ’Till ’mong the sister-clouds it disappears. TWIN LIGHTS.