| |
| WHERE slopes the beach to the setting sun, | |
| On the Pescadero shore, | |
| For ever and ever the restless surf | |
| Rolls up with its sullen roar. | |
| |
| And grasping the pebbles in white hands, | 5 |
| And chafing them together, | |
| And grinding them against the cliffs | |
| In stormy and sunny weather, | |
| |
| It gives them never any rest; | |
| All day, all night, the pain | 10 |
| Of their long agony sobs on, | |
| Sinks, and then swells again. | |
| |
| And tourists come from every clime | |
| To search with eager care, | |
| For those whose rest has been the least; | 15 |
| For such have grown most fair. | |
| |
| But yonder, round a point of rock, | |
| In a quiet, sheltered cove, | |
| Where storm ne’er breaks, and sea ne’er comes, | |
| The tourists never rove. | 20 |
| |
| The pebbles lie ’neath the sunny sky | |
| Quiet forevermore; | |
| In dreams of everlasting peace | |
| They sleep upon the shore. | |
| |
| But ugly, and rough, and jagged still, | 25 |
| Are they left by the passing years; | |
| For they miss the beat of angry storms, | |
| And the surf that drips in tears. | |
| |
| The hard turmoil of the pitiless sea | |
| Turns the pebble to beauteous gem. | 30 |
| They who escape the agony | |
| Miss also the diadem. | |
| |
