MARTIN HILL
Corporal, R.A.M.C.
On Seeing the Coast of England from Boulogne
A LONG low line of polished white
Faintly the cliffs of England gleam,
Now slowly fading out of sight,
Now swiftly leaping back, they seem
Strange joys, strange sorrows to impart,
And voices whisper at my heart.
A quiet wood, a quiet lane,
The song of birds amid the trees,
The splash of sun, the sting of rain,
The warm sweet air, the sighing breeze,
And you beside our cottage door
At eventide. Dear heart, once more
I see the first faint sunbeam tip
The East with gold, the hills light up,
Or stealing lower softly sip
The dewdrop from the rose's cup;
The glint of gorse upon the down,
The long ploughed meadow strong and brown.
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