The punctual tide draws up the bay, With ripple of wave and hiss of spray.

All night the thirsty beach has listening lain With patience dumb, Counting the slow, said moments of her pain; Now morn has come, And with the morn the punctual tide again.

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of "May."

Men die, but sorrow never dies; The crowding years divide in vain, And the wide world is knit with ties Of common brotherhood in pain.

Every Fern is tucked and set, 'Neath coverlet, Downy and soft and warm.

"So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house? And a next is under way for little Mr. Wren?" "Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear! quiet as a mouse. These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them."