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Sonnets Round the Coast

by H. D. Rawnsley
Rawnsley, H. D. (1851-1920)
  
[dedication]

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[section]
expand sectionI. 
BOOK I. SONNETS OF THE ISLE OF WIGHT AND SOUTH COAST.
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BOOK II. SONNETS OF THE CORNISH COASTS.
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BOOK III. SONNETS OF THE BRISTOL CHANNEL.
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BOOK IV. SONNETS OF THE WELSH COAST.
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BOOK V. SONNETS OF THE LANCASHIRE AND CUMBERLAND COASTS.
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BOOK VI. SONNETS OF THE NORTH-EAST COAST.
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BOOK VII.
expand sectionI. 
Part I SONNETS OF THE YORKSHIRE COAST—SALTBURN.
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Part II. SONNETS OF THE YORKSHIRE COAST-RUNSWICK BAY.
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Part III. SONNETS OF THE YORKSHIRE COAST—WHITBY.
 I. 
I. THE SORROW OF THE SEA.
 II. 
II. WHITBY.
 III. 
III. SAINT HILDA.
 IV. 
IV. BY THE ESK AT WHITBY.
 V. 
V. A CONTRAST: WHITBY.
 VI. 
VI. A MEMORY OF CAEDMON, WHITBY.
 VII. 
VII. SUNRISE AT WHITBY.
 VIII. 
VIII. A SUNSET AT WHITBY.
 IX. 
IX. WHITBY ABBEY.
 X. 
X. WHITBY ABBEY.
 XI. 
XI. AFTER THE HERRINGS, WHITBY.
 XII. 
XII. HERRINGS FINE!
 XIII. 
XIII. IN THE UPPER HARBOUR, WHITBY.
 XIV. 
XIV. THE BELL BUOY AT THE HARBOUR MOUTH, WHITBY.
 XV. 
XV. ON THE HARBOUR PIER, WHITBY.
 XVI. 
XVI. LIGHTS ON WHITBY CHURCH STAIRS.
 XVII. 
XVII. SAINT HILDA'S LIGHTS.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. SUNSET LIGHTS ON THE WINDOWS OF SAINT MARY'S CHURCH, WHITBY.
 XIX. 
XIX. THE SIX O'CLOCK BELL, WHITBY.
 XX. 
XX. THE JET WORKER.
 XXI. 
XXI. THE WHITBY BELLS.
 XXII. 
XXII. SERVICE IN THE OLD PARISH CHURCH, WHITBY.
 XXIII. 
XXIII. DROWNED BY THE UPSETTING OF THE LIFE-BOAT, OCTOBER 6, 1841.
 XXIV. 
XXIV. FAREWELL TO WHITBY.
 XXV. 
XXV. THE PENNY HEDGE.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. THE BEGGAR'S BRIDGE, GLAISDALE.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. ON A MOORLAND RAILWAY.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. PICKERING MOOR,
 XXIX. 
XXIX. LILLA CROSS.
 XXX. 
XXX. GOATHLAND.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. IN GLAISDALE WOOD.
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Part iv. SONNETS OF THE YORKSHIRE COAST—SCARBOROUGH.
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BOOK VIII. SONNETS OF THE LINCOLNSHIRE COAST.

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163

I. THE SORROW OF THE SEA.

Hast thou a ceaseless woe that cannot swoon,
Or in thy central depths, some bitter ache
Vexing thy heart and keeping thee awake,
That I, by thine unquiet roused too soon,
Must walk thy headlands, spelling out the rune,
The scripture that thy flowing foam-wreaths make,
Whilst wild with grief thy body seems to shake
And heaves responsive to the sorrowing moon?
Each month thou reachest to the shore a hand
For sympathetic touch, each month in vain
Descendest to thyself to seek for cure,
But learnest ever how the pitiless land
Repels thy plea, and grudges all thy gain,
And how hearts inconsolable endure.
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