Poem by Edwin John Dove Pratt

The Drowning

     The rust of hours,
    Through a year of days,
Has dulled the edge of the pain;
    But at night
A wheel in my sleep
    Grinds it smooth and keen.

    By day I remember
    A face that was lit
With the softness of human pattern;
    But at night
    It is changed in my sleep
To a bygone carved in chalk.

    A cottage inland
    Through a year of days
Has latched its doors on the sea;
    But at night
    I return in my sleep
To the cold, green lure of the waters.

1. The Secret of the Sea
2. Ode to December, 1917
3. The Pine Tree
4. The Toll of the Bells
5. The Morning Plunge

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