Already the dandelions Are changed into vanishing ghosts. - Celia Thaxter

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit. The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm; At night the wind died and the soft rain dropped; With lulling murmur, and the air was warm, And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.

Thou great Creator! Pardon us who reach For other heaven beyond this world of thine, This matchless world, where thy least touch doth teach Thy solemn lessons clearly, line on line. And help us to be grateful, we who live Such sordid, fretful lives of discontent, Nor see the sunshine nor the flower, nor strive To find the love thy bitter chastening meant.