Only old Desolation and sick Care
Sit sorrowing. Where the brine-crusted shore
Slopes to a wrinkled sea-line, scattered o’er
With thin grey flakes of pale and orphaned foam,
Flicked by the jealous gusts from their own wave-filled Home.
Kind hearth you call; I come! The night is rough,
The skies inhospitable; morose this strand;
I will not, nay I dare not longer be
Where Peace, hard-pressed, strains at a nerveless hand.
And peace, fierce ghosts, to thee!