In my ear is the moan of the pines—in my heart is the
song of the sea,
And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses
on me,
And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the
call of the tide,
And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the
breastof a bride.
From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of
sapphire and gold,
Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone
seer of old,
And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far
over the sea—
But I think of a little white cottage and one that is
dearest to me.
Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks
to the shore,—
Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see
it no more;
For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the "Vale of the
Shadow" reclines,
And—hush'd is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moan
of the pines.
[CI]. THE FORSAKEN GARDEN.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.—1837-
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,
Wall'd round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand?
So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briers if a man make way,
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless
Night and day.