Читать книгу Oxford Poetry, 1917 - Various - Страница 5
ОглавлениеTINTAGIL
I lay on the verge of a Western cliff
On a waning Summer's day,
And watched the seagulls' skimming flight
As their shrill call filled the bay.
The waves rolled on from pool to pool
To the end of the rock-strewn lea:
Where a glistening stream through a vale sped on,
With its leaping trout, to the sea.
The wind rose, too, from a breath to a blast
As the rising tide drew near,
And the rain-clouds swelled from the distant deep,
So I knew 'twas a storm to fear.
I've lived on that coast for years now,
And I love the roar of the waves
As they lash the seaweed on the shore,
And the cold grey rocks and the caves.
