Borne to my ears the sound of billows’ roar,
Borne to my ears the far surf’s sullen song,
The scream of seagulls white, wheeling along,
And all the murmur on the distant shore.
What man can build, create such things as these?
What man can lull the waves and wind to sleep?
What man can say that he controls the deep,
The hurricane, the squall, the gust, the breeze?
Man is a tiny creature, yet are his
All, all the things most beautiful on earth,
In sea and sky, even in death and birth!
Yet his creations crumble; his tall trees,
Erected high in steel, cement and stone,
Fall round his ears when their short day is done.