In The DepthsLulled by the deep's caresses. Over my quiet hands It sifts its silver sands, And grasses rank and rare Are tangled in my hair. I hear the far-off shiver Of rushes by the river, And hear the sobbing sedges Along its plashy edges. By day the sunlight twinkles Down through the windy wrinkles; By night the moon floats, steady, Upon the sluggish eddy. The din of far commotion Through music of old ocean I hear__or is it seeming? Is this dread death, or dreaming? But if my will grows stronger To slumber thus no longer, My hands and tongue are holden By magic rare and olden. Only at times my sighs In airy bubbles rise, And break the surface of time In little ripples of rhyme. ___Arthur Graves Canfield
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