I sat upon the shingly Beach
One sunny Summer-day,
A-listening to the mystic speech
Of a million waves at play.
And as I watched the flowing flood
I saw a little child,
Who near a mimic fabric stood
Of shells his hands had piled.
And as he turned to go away,
He said, with look of sorrow:
"Build up I cannot more to-day--
"I'll come again to-morrow!"

The morrow came--he thither hied--
Looked for his castle gay;
But while he'd slept the cruel tide
Had washt it all away.
And thus in life we gaily build
Shell castles in the air;
Our hopes the fairy fabrics gild
With colours bright and rare:
But the dark flood of human strife
Rolls onward while we sleep,
And o'er the wrecks, where waves ran rife,
We waken but to weep.