THE CHURCHYARD ON THE SANDS
My love lies in the gates of foam,
The last dear wreck of shore;
The naked sea-marsh binds her home,
The sand her chamber door.
The gray gull flaps the written stones,
The ox-birds chase the tide;
And near that narrow field of bones
Great ships at anchor ride.
Black piers with crust of dripping green,
One foreland, like a hand,
O'er intervals of grass between
Dim lonely dunes of sand.
A church of silent weathered looks,
A breezy reddish tower,
A yard whose wounded resting-nooks
Are tinged with sorrel flower.
In peace the swallow's eggs are laid
Along the belfry walls;
The tempest does not reach her shade,
The rain her silent halls.
But sails are sweet in summer sky,
The lark throws down a lay;
The long salt levels steam and dry,
The cloud-heart melts away.
And patches of the sea-pink shine,
The pied crows poise and come;
The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine,
Where her sweet lips are dumb.
The passion of the wave is mute;
No sound or ocean shock;
No music save the thrilling flute
That marks the curlew flock....
Lord de Tabley
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