SECOND PART

THE sea in the stones is singing,

A woman binds her hair

With yellow, frail sea-poppies,

That shine as her fingers stir.

While a naked man comes swiftly

Like a spurt of white foam rent

From the crest of a falling breaker,

Over the poppies sent.

He puts his surf-wet fingers

Over her startled eyes,

And asks if she sees the land, the land,

The land of her glad surmise.