A LYNMOUTH WIDOW

He was straight and strong, and his eyes were blue As the summer meeting of sky and sea, And the ruddy cliffs have a colder hue Than flushed his cheek when he married me. We passed the porch where the swallows breed, We left the little brown church behind, And I leaned on his arm though I had no need, Only to feel him so strong and kind. One thing I never can quite forget— It grips my throat when I try to pray— The keen salt smell of a drying net That hung on the churchyard wall that day. He would have taken a long, long grave— A long, long grave, for he stood so tall.... Oh, God—the crash of the breaking wave, And the smell of the nets on the churchyard wall!