Poem for the day

Tide be runnin` the great world over:
`Twas only last June month I mind that we
Was thinkin` the toss about the call in the breast of the lover
So everlastin` as the sea.

Heer`s the same little fishes that sputter and swim,
Wi` the moon`s old glim on the grey, wet sand;
An` him no more to me nor me to him
Than the wind in` over my hand.