His waves come rolling evermore;
His noisy toil grindeth the shore,
And all the cliff is drencht with spray.
Here as we sit, my love and I,
Under the pine upon the hill,
The sadness of the clouded sky,
The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,
The seamew’s melancholy cry
With loving fancy suit but ill.
We talk of moons and cooling suns,