 | Marah |  |
133
SEAWARD
1
The green grows ever greyer as we pass;The lean soil sandier; the spacious air
More breezy; raggeder the bristly grass;
And the few crookèd leafless trees more rare.
2
And now nor grass, nor trees! But only stonesTufted with patches of wild rosemary
And spurge. Behind them hidden, something moans;
And large white birds come with a questioning cry.
134
3
What's there, beyond? A thing unsearch'd and strange;Not happier, but different. Something vast
And new. Some unimaginable change
From what has been. Perchance the end at last?
| Marah | |