The sea, which in its breathing murmurs sleep
and rolls the sodden sailor on the sand
holds many treasures sailors cannot reap.
A lonely farm, swept by the tides of wheat
could not requite his first true love, the land.
The sea, which in its breathing murmurs sleep
received his angry furrow; then the steep
waves took him, wet-eyed and unmanned
among the treasures he can never reap.
But now his body knocks against the beach
he must awake and stumble up the sand.
The sea-witch in her breathing murmurs sleep
to lull the sailor resting in her keep:
she knows he will return to love, the land
whose many treasures sailors cannot reap.
The half-drowned ploughman rises from the deep
to kneel upon the earth, take in his hands
her living treasures. Sailors cannot reap
the sea, which in its breathing murmurs sleep.