MY life is like a stroll upon the beach, <br />As near the ocean’s edge as I can go; <br />My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach, <br />Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. <br /> <br />My sole employment is, and scrupulous care, <br />To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,— <br />Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, <br />Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides. <br /> <br />I have but few companions on the shore: <br />They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; <br />Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er <br />Is deeper known upon the strand to me. <br /> <br />The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, <br />Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; <br />Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, <br />And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.<br /><br />Henry David Thoreau<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fisher-s-boy/
