AN island ringed with surf— A cool green shade and tiny enchanted spot of trees and flowers and fountains— The ocean raging round it. The roar of London interminably stretching, interminably sounding, Great waves of human life breaking, millions of drops together, torrents of vehicles pouring, business men marching, gangs of workmen, soldiers, loafers, street hawkers; Shopkeepers running out of their shops to look at their own windows, a woman seized with birth-pangs on a doorstep, ragamuffins and children swirling by, eddies and rapid of fashion. The everlasting tide, ebbing a little at night, rising again in the day—with fierce continuous roaring— Yet infringing not on the little island. Here only a little spray, a dull and distant reverberation; In the soft shade a pleasant drowsy air, the willows hanging their branches to the water; The drake preening his feathers in the sun, or swimming among the flags by the pond side, regardless of Nelson peering over the tree-tops from his column, taking no note of the great clock-face of Westminster. Only a little spray, broken water. Drop by drop, one by one, or here and there in twos, Specimens, items out of the deep. The baker's man, working 15 hours a day, leaves his handcart in a convenient spot outside and puts in a quiet quarter of an hour here with a novel; The old woman—her thumb gathered and disabled by incessant work on crape—now as a matter of course thrown out of employ—goes along moaning and muttering to herself; The pursy old gentleman who has made his money out of the mourning warehouse also goes along; The footman on an errand walks leisurely by, the French nurse plays with the little English children; The rather elegant young lady meets her man by appointment at one of the garden seats; they study Bradshaw together in an undertone, revolving plans; The middle-aged widower comes along—thin, so thin, dressed all in black, seeing nothing, hearing nothing—sitting down for a moment, then up again—resting only in constant movement; The tramp, with dead expressionless face—the man who is not wanted, to whom every one says No—comes along, and throws himself listlessly down under the trees. Only a little spray, broken water. The summer sun falls peaceful on the grass, The tide of traffic rises a little during the day and ebbs again at night, But the great roaring bates not—breaks the surf Of human life forever on this shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LACEDEMONIAN INSTRUCTION by WILLIAM BLAKE LONG JOHN BROWN AND LITTLE MARY BELL by WILLIAM BLAKE DARWINISM by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON THE SUMMER IS ENDED (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI A CAROL CLOSING SIXTY-NINE by WALT WHITMAN THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER FREQUENTLY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |