The Old Wharves

I'm sorry for the old wharves

Because they have to stand

With the sea all round their wooden knees

And never run to land

If they grow tired. They have to stay

In their places night and day.

Tilted backwards, gray and worn

From salty tides that flow

Dark green at high-water mark,

Weedy-brown at low—

It never stops surprising me

How they can stand so patiently!