Low-Tide

     These wet rocks where the tide has been,
       Barnacled white and weeded brown
     And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
       These wet rocks where the tide went down
     Will show again when the tide is high
       Faint and perilous, far from shore,
     No place to dream, but a place to die,—
       The bottom of the sea once more.
     There was a child that wandered through
       A giant's empty house all day,—
     House full of wonderful things and new,
       But no fit place for a child to play.