Informant38

THE COMING OF THE SILENCE
(After the Summer Tide)
by
Blanche Trask

She doth not walk the village street,
Lest ways too smooth should harm her feet;

She waits until the tide is low,
And there 'mid old rocks, see her go

(The rocks which long must buried be,
'Till winter's low tide sets them free).

She loiters on the long wet sand,
A trailing seaweed in her hand.

The gulls which loud, discordant cry,
Fly seaward as she passes by;

The fog which long for her doth wait
Enthrones and mantles her in state.

The winds that pray her slaves to be,
As scepters holds she o'er the sea.

The low, low tides yet lower creep,
'Till all the world is lost in sleep.
* * * * *
Then mantled fog she throws aside,
The sceptred wind she scatters wide,

And thro' long days she dares to be
What she meant - eternity.