  WHERE with shudder of surf and splash of spray The surge to the curve of the cove advances There lingers a memory all the day Of his random fancies, his quaint romances. The white waves murmur, the light winds moan, The sea-birds call from the reef’s recesses, With rustle of leaves strange scents are blown From blooms half veiled by the trailers’ tresses. Surely, indeed, he loved it well, This lustrous speck in a waste of waters, Where with shimmer of weed and sheen of shell The great Pacific her bounty scatters. Here Nature poured in his listening ear Her secrets of earth and sea and skyland, Till the far-off things of Earth seemed near To Nature’s child in his Treasure Island. Here, as foam-flakes hurled by the blast, As burning sparks from the anvil beaten, His aspirations found vent at last In the bygone years by the locust eaten. Still with shudder of surf and splash of spray, The surge to the curve of the cove advances, And the breeze still sighs to the isle from the bay Of his tender fancies, his gay romances. |
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