IV.
Sharp round the steep hill’s utmost line
It winds, and, just below, the grass
Sinks with tumultuous incline
To where the rock-pools shine like glass;
The tufts of thrift can drink their fill
Of sea-wind on this rugged hill,
And all the herbage, toss’d and blown,
Is stain’d with salt and crush’d with wind,
Save where behind some boulder-stone
A harbour flowers may find.