A Lincolnshire Maiden

Long the eastern beaches,

Where brown the seaweed grows,

And over broad salt meadows,

The green tide ebbs and flows.

Above the low-roofed houses,

Two ancient towers rise,

And stand like giant druids,

Against the wind-swept skies.

Through mist or rain or sunshine,

Their prows festooned with foam,

The fishing-boats go outward

Or laden, turn them home.

She watches by the window,

And tearless are her eyes;

She sees not church or tower,

Or sea or wind-swept skies.

She sees not tide or tempest,

Or sun or mist or rain;

Afar her spirit wanders

Upon the Belgian plain.

Where over shell-scarred cities

The mad, red tempest raves,

And poplars sigh and shudder

Above unnumbered graves.