Sea Song

I will think no more of the sea!

Of the big green waves

And the hollowed shore,

Of the brown rock caves

No more, no more

Of the swell and the weed

And the bubbling foam.

Memory dwells in my far away home,

She has nothing to do with me.

She is old and bent

With a pack

On her back.

Her tears all spent,

Her voice, just a crack.

With an old thorn stick

She hobbles along,

And a crazy song

Now slow, now quick,

Wheeks in her throat.

And every day

While there's light on the shore

She searches for something;

Her withered claw

Tumbles the seaweed;

She pokes in each shell

Groping and mumbling

Until the night

Deepens and darkens,

And covers her quite,

And bids her be silent,

And bids her be still.

The ghostly feet

Of the whispery waves

Tiptoe beside her.

They follow, follow

To the rocky caves

In the white beach hollow . . .

She hugs her hands,

She sobs, she shrills,

And the echoes shriek

In the rocky hills.

She moans: "It is lost!

Let it be! Let it be!

I am old. I'm too cold.

I am frightened . . . the sea

Is too loud . . . it is lost,

It is gone . . . Memory

Wails in my far away home.