By the Atlantic

Mon, 10/15/2018 - 14:06 -- em_c

An endless train of hills

Rolls sighing toward the beach;

By us stook in their way

Unhindered as they march


And one by one the shore

They fall upon and smash, 

Then into their own troughs

Away in rhythm flush.


Off shadows that they wear

The sun's white arrows flash,

But that low chill they bear

Its summer burn won't quash.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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