The wild waves toss the driftwood high
Upon the rocks or gleaming sands
And there in scattered sort they lie,
The spoils of many distant lands.

And now and then a pleading face,
In mute appeal to God, is turned,
In which we seek in vain to trace
The perished thought that glowed and burned.

And once I saw upon the sands
A baby with bright golden hair;
Clinched were the darling's little hands
And on its lips a smile was there.