J. E. A. CARVER

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.