Bush, Olivia Ward
|Driftwood -- Sung by the strand to the music of the wave.|
And now the sun in tinted splendor sank,
The west was all aglow with crimson light;
The bay seemed like a sheet of burnished gold,
Its waters glistened with such radiance bright.
At anchor lay the yachts with snow-white sails,
Outlined against the glowing, rose-hued sky;
No ripple stirred the waters' calm repose
Save when a tiny craft sped lightly by.
Our boat was drifting slowly, gently round,
To rest secure till evening shadows fell;
No sound disturbed the stillness of the air,
Save the soft chiming of the vesper bell.
Yes, drifting, drifting; and I thought that life,
When nearing death, is like the sunset sky:
And death is but the slow, sure drifting in,
To rest far more securely, by and by.
Then let me drift along the Bay of time,
Till my last sun shall set in glowing light;
Let me cast anchor where no shadows fall,
Full safely moored within Heaven's harbor bright.
Newport, June 12, 1898.