by Arthur Symons
O is it death or life that sounds
Like something strangely known
In this subsiding out of strife,
This low sea monotone?
A sound scarce heard through sleep
Murmurs as the August bees
That fill the forest hollows deep
About the roots of trees.
O is it death or life, or is it
Hope or memory
That quiets all things with this breath
Of the eternal sea?