In a village by the water, Where the fishing boats lay still, The folk went down at morning tide, Their empty baskets to fill. But the oysters hid beneath the sand, And the clams were few and poor, And the old folk whispered warnings: *The sea gives plenty, the sea takes more.* Then came a tide of plenty, Such as none had seen before, With oysters thick upon the beds, And clams along the shore. They filled their boats and baskets, Then returned to gather more, And laughing, sang their fortune: *The sea gives plenty, the sea takes more.* But among the shells lay strangers, Black as moonless water deep, And though the folk broke open each, There was nothing there to keep. They tossed them back into the waves, As they had done before, But the black shells kept returning: *The sea gives plenty, the sea takes more.* One morning Tom the fisher Was not seen upon the quay. His boat was tied, his nets were dry, No footprints led to sea. And where he'd worked the oyster beds, A black shell lay ashore, And the children ceased their singing: *The sea gives plenty, the sea takes more.* Then one by one they vanished, Till no lantern lit the night, And black shells climbed the village steps, Beyond the water's height. No voice was heard, no fire burned, No hand unlatched a door, But the shells lay there in silence: *The sea gives plenty, the sea takes more.* Now travelers pass that village, Where the houses face the sea, And hear the shells beneath the sand Click softly with the breeze. So take your fill, but heed this song, When plenty lines the shore, For the sea has its own harvest, **And the sea takes evermore.**
