The emerald surf cascades in churning cream;
The sea beyond is silent: in a dream
Part colored by the moving wave and sky,
And part by shadowed cloud and burning sun,
And part by where the buried centuries lie.
The amber channels stained by sea-silt run
Out from the coves, and whisper at the edge
Of salt-grass meadows and the hemlock’s root,
And thickets bearing bursting purple fruit
Of beach plum and blueberry; where the sedge,
Stiff and sharp in brittle sword blades, stands
By pools and lakes and long-deserted strands.
Rivers flow unerring to the sea,
And harbors hold the tide within the hills;
The orbit moon reveals the rippled sand,
And in its mould the liquid silver spills:
Then draws the ocean back upon the shore,
To hide again the fecund fertile spoor.

This is the water where our lives began:
I sit and watch the crucible of man.

Watching Water The Saturday Evening Post