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A. D. 1875.

METHINKS I am upon a barren shore

Where there are rocks and spume and bitter weeds,

And grimly silent reefs; the shifting sand,

Though seeming firm, is swaying to the waves

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That, hoarsely pulsing, surge upon the beach

And, baffled, feign with seething hiss to yield,

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The while, pervading deep, they turn the sand

To their dread purpose. Hither I have come

Across a varied plain that stretches back

Till dimly lost in light; but bright-eyed Hope

Has slowly vanished in the quicksand dread,

And left me here alone. My tearful prayer

Is answered by the petrel's mournful cry,

The scud of spray, the hoarse-voiced waves that move

In mockery the shudder of the sand,

The pebbles harshly grating on the beach.

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