You will draw back,
And the ripple on the sand-shelf
Will be witness of your track.
O privet-white, you will paint
The lintel of wet sand with froth.
You will bring myrrh-bark
And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts.
When you hurl high—high—
We will answer with a shout.
For you will come,
You will come,
You will answer our taut hearts,
You will break the lie of men's thoughts,
And cherish and shelter us.
THE SHRINE
(“She Watches Over the Sea”)
I
Are your rocks shelter for ships?
Have you sent galleys from your beach—
Are you graded—a safe crescent,
Where the tide lifts them back to port?
Are you full and sweet,
Tempting the quiet
To depart in their trading ships?
Nay, you are great, fierce, evil—
You are the land-blight—
You have tempted men,
But they perished on your cliffs.
Your lights are but dank shoals,
Slate and pebbles and wet shells
And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.