ONE tiny wave from out the sea
Has swept some battered spars to me.
I find no trace from whence they’ve come —
No line, no mark, to say why here
They should appear.
And yet my soul, oppressed and horror-sped,
All night will dream of lost, sad mariners
Or of those cottages along the shore
Where lighted candles gleam forevermore
To welcome home the lost, the non-returning.
These spars speak, oh, so clearly to my heart
All that the longing, waiting souls impart
Of those that fail in their returning.