Tides

The tide is high! The tide is high!

The shiny waves go marching by

Past ledge and shallow and weedy reach

Up the long gray lengths of shingle beach;

Like an army storming height on height

With green-blue armor and banners white

On, on they charge to the farthest line

Of scattered seaweed brown and fine—

So far, then, grumbling, back creep they,

And the tide has turned for another day.

The tide is low! The tide is low!

Weed-decked and gaunt the ledges show

With mussel shells in blues and blacks

And barnacles along their backs.

Now kelp shines like mahogany

And every rock pool brims with sea

To make a little looking glass

For sky and clouds and birds that pass.