It always seemed a silly little song.
To speak of waves of grain? It must be wrong.
The water always seemed to me much more
Than any field could be. How could it store
The slightest sense of surge, to bear along
A boat, and break? A farm is strong,
But like a wall, not like a wave, I swore.
Yet here, as night casts shadows on the snow
The wheat (unwaving yet, as it must grow)
Reminds me of the ocean rippling free
No waves as yet, but still an energy
That my sea-sense already seems to know
And recognizes past solidity.
