 | Poems |  |
66
Eastbourne
I love thee, queenly mother of the streams,That seek thy breast again, their labour done;
Source of all kindly waters, as the sun
Is minister of warmth and fruitful beams;
Like harvest-waggons, drawn by chiming teams
Of horses grey, the merchant-vessels run
Upon thy plain; and oft from thee has won
The city toiler health and happy dreams.
A promise in thy voice I understand,
Fairer than length of days or teeming marts;
For thou shalt bear us in thy pallid hand,
My love and me, until thy barrier parts
Us ever from the narrow northern land,
And ever from the narrow northern hearts.
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