Mournfully, mournfully whispering, they,
Whispering, whispering every day,
Thy soul in their waters, thy breath in their spray,
Thy spirit still speaking in all that they say.
They knew thee well, those weedy rocks,
And now they rear their rugged blocks
When I pass by,
To ask me why
They never feel thy tender hands;
And all the yellow of the sands