Клинтон Сколлард (Clinton Scollard)

A Sailor Amid the Hills

  What does he hear in dreams? The surging wind,
    Its long-drawn cadence, its wild harmony,
  A mighty harp of infinite strings designed,
    Whose sound to him seems sweet immeasurably?
  Nay, nay, but through the spaces of his mind,
  Plangent or pleading, loud or low-defined,
    The ever-haunting murmur of the sea!

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