Lone lookers for another home
Than this green land.
Grass-grown their ruined walls still top
Yon bare, brown hill, yon bleak, grey shore,
Half-fallen, titanic plinths still prop
A low, bent door.
Or under shudderings of the wave,
Which on some dripping threshold fall,
Yawns wide a dark, surf-fashioned cave
Where sea-mews call,