WHERE slopes the beach to the setting
On the Pescadero shore,
Forever and ever the restless surf
Rolls up with its sullen roar.
And grasping the pebbles in white hands,
And chafing them together,
And grinding them against the cliffs
• In stormy and sunny weather,
It gives them never any rest :
All day, all night, the pain
Of their long agony sobs on.
Sinks and then swells again.
And tourists come from every clime
To search with eager care
For those whose rest has been the least ;
For such have grown most fair.
But yonder, round a point of rock.
In a quiet, sheltered cove.
Where storm ne’er breaks and sea ne’er comes,