SEASHORE MEMORIES
I shall return no more
Until I have grown old—then I can see
Without this sudden, clutching pain
At heart and throat
The long white curve of beach outlined
Against twin depths of blue,
So soft, so perfect like the creamy leaf
Of a gigantic rose.
The sea that trembles virgin like
With the impatient kisses of the sun,
Now wistful, tremulous
Behind her silver-spangled veil,
Then swooning in a vivid ecstasy
Of purest sapphire light.
The distant sails
That slowly moving, seem to mock
The grey-winged gulls who dart
Hither and yon, so aimless and so swift.
The long, dark wall where leaps the spray,
And farther off,
The clustered cottage-roofs of autumn hues,
Orange and red and brown.
Even the smallest things, the waxy green,
Low-growing weeds that mark
The threadlike course
Where a brave streamlet strove to reach the sea,
The fleet sand-spirals rising light
As the pale yellow smoke
From fairy signal fires—all make too keen
The throbbing memories of days
Not to be lived again.
Oh, my first lover with the sea-blue eyes,
Would I not give the rest
Of youth and all the shrivelled years
Of eld to see—
Only to see once more
The sunlight on that golden head of thine?
Until I have grown old—then I can see
Without this sudden, clutching pain
At heart and throat
The long white curve of beach outlined
Against twin depths of blue,
So soft, so perfect like the creamy leaf
Of a gigantic rose.
The sea that trembles virgin like
With the impatient kisses of the sun,
Now wistful, tremulous
Behind her silver-spangled veil,
Then swooning in a vivid ecstasy
Of purest sapphire light.
The distant sails
That slowly moving, seem to mock
The grey-winged gulls who dart
Hither and yon, so aimless and so swift.
The long, dark wall where leaps the spray,
And farther off,
The clustered cottage-roofs of autumn hues,
Orange and red and brown.
Even the smallest things, the waxy green,
Low-growing weeds that mark
The threadlike course
Where a brave streamlet strove to reach the sea,
The fleet sand-spirals rising light
As the pale yellow smoke
From fairy signal fires—all make too keen
The throbbing memories of days
Not to be lived again.
Oh, my first lover with the sea-blue eyes,
Would I not give the rest
Of youth and all the shrivelled years
Of eld to see—
Only to see once more
The sunlight on that golden head of thine?