Between two waves, one flat on sand,

The other rising darkly green;

One drying slowly into the land;

One crested white with drops that mean

To fling themselves as never flung

Sea-water at the world before,

The history of earth stands still.

Man has this instant, if at all,

To know, to stop, to guess, to will

The way his toppling wave shall fall.

Not that he might not stay the tide,

Or help some skeleton to hide,

Or save the world by his belief.

But that the possible is brief.

Aiming the nearest blue-gray stone

At the deep of a tall wave thrown

Is all a man ashore can do,

And hope his wrist and eye are true.

If arm and eye and blue stone strike

All white together into the wave,

One drop of what he may love and like

Is his by sudden skill to save

From drying easily into the sand.

Still the sea-waves come at the land.