 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
117
ON THE WESTERN CLIFFS
Out of the windy waste
Of waters rolling gray,
Homeward the red sails haste
Across the bay.
Over the downs I see
The summits black and sheer,
When evening on the lea
Is pale and clear.
Of waters rolling gray,
Homeward the red sails haste
Across the bay.
Over the downs I see
The summits black and sheer,
When evening on the lea
Is pale and clear.
There as the twilight falls,
The seabirds float and cry;
—Only the mountain walls
Make faint reply;—
Or with broad wing decline
Down to their rocky home,
Warm in the chilly brine,
Nestled in foam.
The seabirds float and cry;
—Only the mountain walls
Make faint reply;—
Or with broad wing decline
Down to their rocky home,
Warm in the chilly brine,
Nestled in foam.
Over the oozy weed
The flying feet haste on,
Hither and thither speed
Ere day be done.
For them the fry that dive
Poise in their liquid bed,
They neither fear nor strive,
Sleep and are fed.
The flying feet haste on,
Hither and thither speed
Ere day be done.
118
Poise in their liquid bed,
They neither fear nor strive,
Sleep and are fed.
Then comes the night, the end,
What should their dying be?
Death steals, a silent friend,
Out of the sea.
Under the rocky edge
They close their languid eye,
While shrill from tuft and ledge
Their brethren cry.
What should their dying be?
Death steals, a silent friend,
Out of the sea.
Under the rocky edge
They close their languid eye,
While shrill from tuft and ledge
Their brethren cry.
Or where the stranded wrack,
Rimmed on the stunted grass,
Rattles so dry and black
As the winds pass,
The draggled feather flies,
The frail denuded bones
Bleach, and the sightless eyes,
On the grey stones.
Rimmed on the stunted grass,
Rattles so dry and black
As the winds pass,
The draggled feather flies,
The frail denuded bones
Bleach, and the sightless eyes,
On the grey stones.
Under the weary hill
The wandering footsteps cease;
He that must wander still
Envies your peace.
Wasted by harsh events,
Sighs to be large and free,
Mix with the elements,
And breathe, and be.
The wandering footsteps cease;
He that must wander still
Envies your peace.
Wasted by harsh events,
Sighs to be large and free,
Mix with the elements,
And breathe, and be.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |