THE tide ran low, ran very low, ran out;
Autumn had settled down upon the land;
And Winter's face, the face of death, was sweet,
For there was calm, an end of strife and doubt.
Strange grew the common sky, the wonted strand,
Since here no more our loving eyes could meet,
No more the aching heart and wearied feet
Rest by Love's side and hold his tireless hand.

But one day, walking by the morning sea,
There rose a wave of summer and of youth
That broke resistless through grief's narrow bound,
And wrought life's past and present and to be
Into one marvellous vision of the truth;
The imperishable joy swept in without one sound.