Songs of the Sea Children

by Bliss Carman


 

LXXVIII


 

Dearest, in this so golden fall, 
When beauty aches with her own bliss, 
One thought the pause to my desire 
And my small consolation is.

I am a child. A thistle seed 

5

On the boon wind is more than I, 
Yet will the hand that sows the hills 
Have care of me too when I die.

When I who love thee without words
Sink as a foam-bell in the sea,

10
One who has no regard for fame 
Will neither have contempt for me.