The sight

The sight was that of demented sea-foam 
Surging in militant waves that would crush 
The squatting rocks, marching to overcome 
The hedges that bound their every mad rush: 
They stretched as distant as the eye could gaze, 
Meeting with the element of the sky
To constitute a pow’r that could amaze
Thoughts that tend to raise one’s spirits too high: 
Then again, on another more calm day
It crept to the shore as soft soothing waves
That gave one some respite from obsessed ways 
Of thought — the assurances humans crave
Are there for the gathering: anxious eyes
Are quick to recognize what they despise.

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