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.