Far up the shingle crept the cruel wave,
With seeming coy reluctance to his feet,
Which—faint with toiling in the noonday heat—
He let his foe with flattering murmur lave,
Nor sought to flee the cool and pleasant grave
Its soft arms laid about him, nor to cheat
The patient billow of its victim meet,
For he had lost all power himself to save.
When, while he waited, thinking death was slow,
Eyesight and hearing dim with tired despair,
The whisper of the sea grew faint and low,
And, waked by stirring of the evening air,
He rose, and saw the waves in sunset glow,
Gleaming far off in beauty new and rare.