HILL 60
As some far swimmer, turning, views once more
England’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,
But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dear
Thy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,
Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bed
In this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.
Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,
Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;