High Water at London

THIS is the wave that rang from shore to shore
With alien battle cries; this is the wave
That stood at Cæsar’s prow, that scornful gave
Echo to Norman shout and Danish oar;
This swerving flood in many old nights has drawn
Seaward with such rare freight of dreams and fame,
Valor, and high adventure without a name,
That even to-day its foam runs fire at dawn.

Ay, even to-day its tides go burnished bright
With pomp of kings and beauty of watching queens,
Glint of old armor, arrogant flags unfurled;
And never this hour comes brimming to its height
But, slow and deep, an answering pulse begins
In all the lonely waters of the world.