They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes,
And let the great white-crested reckless wave
Beat out their booming melody. 
                                  The sea
Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled
The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp,
As playing at some rough and dangerous game,
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help,
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep,
And tossed the fishing boats.  Then Gladys laughed,
And said, “O, happy tide, to be so lost
In sunshine, that one dare not look at it;
And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm;
And yet how lucky are the shadows, too,
That lurk beneath their ledges.  It is strange,
That in remembrance though I lay them up,
They are forever, when I come to them,
Better than I had thought.  O, something yet
I had forgotten.  Oft I say, ’At least
This picture is imprinted; thus and thus,
The sharpened serried jags run up, run out,
Layer on layer.’  And I look—­up—­up—­
High, higher up again, till far aloft
They cut into their ether,—­brown, and clear,
And perfect.  And I, saying, ’This is mine,
To keep,’ retire; but shortly come again,
And they confound me with a glorious change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them;
They redden, and their edges drip with—­what? 
I know not, but ’t is red.  It leaves no stain,
For the next morning they stand up like ghosts
In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews
Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on,
Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood.

“There is the boulder where we always turn. 
O!  I have longed to pass it; now I will. 
What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring;
’Young ladies!  Gladys!  I am shocked.  My dears,
Decorum, if you please:  turn back at once. 
Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked
Before you.’  Then they sigh,—­how kind they are!—­
’What will become of you, if all your life
You look a long way off?—­look anywhere,
And everywhere, instead of at your feet,
And where they carry you!’ Ah, well, I know
It is a pity,” Gladys said; “but then
We cannot all be wise:  happy for me,
That other people are.

“And yet I wish,—­
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts
Come to me,—­I do wish that they would come
When they are wanted!—­when I teach the sums
On rainy days, and when the practising
I count to, and the din goes on and on,
Still the same tune and still the same mistake,
Then I am wise enough:  sometimes I feel
Quite old.  I think that it will last, and say,
’Now my reflections do me credit! now
I am a woman!’ and I wish they knew
How serious all my duties look to me. 
And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies,
Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds,
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last?  Perhaps, that very day,