Rose Terry Cooke

Ebb and Flow

'Tis something to have turned the tide
That ebbed and ebbed and slid away,
Till all the sands lay bare and wide,
A dreary level, bleak and gray.
The hidden rocks, the treacherous shore,
Show black and steep above the sea;
The maddened breakers rave no more,
Full fast the outward billows flee.
Rest for thy moment, turning tide!
Then creep and ripple on the sand.
I fear no more thy waters wide,
I know the dangers of the strand.
Now let the white-caps foam and flow,
The soul assured may laugh at fear,
And bear serene the heaviest woe,
So that its utmost depths appear.

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