Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
they ride the waves and sea mist into grace;
westward they drift, they urge, they slide, they ease —
they make their way untrammeled and at peace.
They make their way untrammeled, as I sink
without a trace beneath the waters they
cross with such ease, and sinking, feel my blood
surge and release as I become the flood,
The tidal urge, that drives on them on their way,
that drives them on into the break of day.
[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited April 11, 2005).]
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