Low-Tide

These wet rocks where the tide has been,
   Barnacled white and weeded brown
And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
   These wet rocks where the tide went down
Will show again when the tide is high
   Faint and perilous, far from shore,
No place to dream, but a place to die,—
   The bottom of the sea once more.


There was a child that wandered through
   A giant's empty house all day,—
House full of wonderful things and new,
   But no fit place for a child to play.