O'ER the white waste of drifted sands unstable

We climbed the sedgy dune,

Where, like a sleeping giant, old Cape Sable

Basked at the feet of June.

Beneath the summer noon the shore birds twittered

Around in glancing flocks,

And, like a fair display of jewels, glittered

The foam-bells on the rocks.

Deep peace was in the air and on the billows,

That in smooth slumber lay,

Or gently tossed upon their sandy pillows

As infants wake to play.

The breeze moved landward, scarcely felt in blowing,

But such the fisher hails

With joy when, after weary hours of rowing,

It swells his spritted sails.

The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles,

Far outward we could trace;

The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the wrinkles

From out old Ocean's face.

No envious shadow on the flood descended;

Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep

In silent grandeur with the horizon blended,

Deep calling unto deep.

And every shadow, from my life retreating,

Left free the placid mind;

The finite with the infinite was meeting

Undimmed and unconfined.

How many times my eager gaze had rested

Upon that sea and shore;

But never, never had they been invested

With such a charm before.

They wear it still in calm ideal perfection,

Though years since then have flown;

That summer day's unclouded recollection

Shall ever be my own.