The Flood For the earth is full of the moon’s gold,
Where is its peace? it never can unfold. The sea it is the jeweller’s breath,
In every pearl lies a secret death.

It splashes and plashes where it will,
And out of the past, fresh floods come still;
Above it the clouds drift high away,
And beneath it, the life of the People lay.

I will open a winding lay
Among the reeds where the swallows play,
To wash the feet of wandering men,
Who seek their homes to nest again.

• John Clare