All Night The Thirsty Beach Has Listening Lain, With Patience Dumb, Counting The Slow, Sad Moments Of Her Pain; Now Morn Has Come, And With The Morn The Punctual Tide Again. I Hear The White Battalions Down The Bay Charge With A Cheer; The Sun'S Gold Lances Prick Them On Their Way,-- They Plunge, They Rear,-- Foam-Plumed And Snowy-Pennoned, They Are Here! The Roused Shore, Her Bright Hair Backward Blown, Stands On The Verge And Waves A Smiling Welcome, Beckoning On The Flying Surge, While Round Her Feet, Like Doves, The Billows Crowd And Urge. Her Glad Lips Quaff The Salt, Familiar Wine; Her Spent Urns Fill; All Hungering Creatures Know The Sound, The Sign,-- Quiver And Thrill, With Glad Expectance Crowd And Banquet At Their Will. I, Too, The Rapt Contentment Join And Share; My Tide Is Full; There Is New Happiness In Earth, In Air: All Beautiful And Fresh The World But Now So Bare And Dull. But While We Raise The Cup Of Bliss So High, Thus Satisfied, Another Shore Beneath A Sad, Far Sky Waiteth Her Tide, And Thirsts With Sad Complainings Still Denied. On Earth'S Remotest Bound She Sits And Waits In Doubt And Pain; Our Joy Is Signal For Her Sad Estates; Like Dull Refrain Marring Our Song, Her Sighings Rise In Vain. To Each His Turn--The Ebb-Tide And The Flood, The Less, The More-- God Metes His Portions Justly Out, I Know; But Still Before My Mind Forever Floats That Pale And Grieving Shore.