J. E. A. CARVER
TINTAGIL
I lay on the verge of a Western cliff
On a waning Summer's day,
And watched the seagulls' skimming flight
As their shrill call filled the bay.
The waves rolled on from pool to pool
To the end of the rock-strewn lea:
Where a glistening stream through a vale sped on,
With its leaping trout, to the sea.