BY THE NORTH SEA

I.

1.

A land that is lonelier than ruin;
  A sea that is stranger than death: 
Far fields that a rose never blew in,
  Wan waste where the winds lack breath;
Waste endless and boundless and flowerless
  But of marsh-blossoms fruitless as free: 
Where earth lies exhausted, as powerless
        To strive with the sea.

2.

Far flickers the flight of the swallows,
  Far flutters the weft of the grass
Spun dense over desolate hollows
  More pale than the clouds as they pass: 
Thick woven as the weft of a witch is
  Round the heart of a thrall that hath sinned,
Whose youth and the wrecks of its riches
        Are waifs on the wind.

3.

The pastures are herdless and sheepless,
  No pasture or shelter for herds: 
The wind is relentless and sleepless,
  And restless and songless the birds;
Their cries from afar fall breathless,
  Their wings are as lightnings that flee;
For the land has two lords that are deathless: 
        Death’s self, and the sea.

4.

These twain, as a king with his fellow,
  Hold converse of desolate speech: 
And her waters are haggard and yellow
  And crass with the scurf of the beach: 
And his garments are grey as the hoary
  Wan sky where the day lies dim;
And his power is to her, and his glory,
        As hers unto him.

5.

In the pride of his power she rejoices,
  In her glory he glows and is glad: 
In her darkness the sound of his voice is,
  With his breath she dilates and is mad: 
’If thou slay me, O death, and outlive me,
  Yet thy love hath fulfilled me of thee.’ 
’Shall I give thee not back if thou give me,
        O sister, O sea?’

6.

And year upon year dawns living,
  And age upon age drops dead: 
And his hand is not weary of giving,
  And the thirst of her heart is not fed: 
And the hunger that moans in her passion,
  And the rage in her hunger that roars,
As a wolf’s that the winter lays lash on,
        Still calls and implores.

7.

Her walls have no granite for girder,
  No fortalice fronting her stands: 
But reefs the bloodguiltiest of murder
  Are less than the banks of her sands: 
These number their slain by the thousand;
  For the ship hath no surety to be,
When the bank is abreast of her bows and
        Aflush with the sea.

8.

No surety to stand, and no shelter
  To dawn out of darkness but one,
Out of waters that hurtle and welter
  No succour to dawn with the sun
But a rest from the wind as it passes,
  Where, hardly redeemed from the waves,
Lie thick as the blades of the grasses
        The dead in their graves.