John Presland, The Deluge, and Other Poems
“ What can death render us commensurate With what it takes away; the voice of birds On sweet spring mornings, and the face of spring; And lush long grass around the browsing herds; And shadows on the distant hills the flying rain-clouds fling? What is there brighter in the world to come Than white-winged sea-gulls, flashing in the sun Above the blue Atlantic; what more free, Yet what more stable, than those white wings, strung All motionless, against a wind that whips the racing sea? ”
