Poem of the day

The Ground-Swell
by E.J. Pratt (1882-1964)

Three times we heard it calling with a low,
      Insistent note; at ebb-tide on the noon;
      And at the hour of dusk, when the red moon
Was rising and the tide was on the flow;
Then, at the hour of midnight once again,
      Though we had entered in and shut the door
      And drawn the blinds, it crept up from the shore
And smote upon a bedroom window-pane;
Then passed away as some dull pang that grew
Out of the void before Eternity
      Had fashioned out an edge for human grief;
Before the winds of God had learned to strew
His harvest-sweepings on a winter sea
      To feed the primal hungers of a reef.

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