Last night the seawind was to me
A metaphor of liberty,
And every wave along the beach
A starlit music seemed to be.
To-day the seawind is to me
A fettered soul that would be free,
And dumbly striving after speech
The tides yearn landward painfully.
To-morrow how shall sound for me
The changing voice of wind and sea?
What tidings shall be borne of each?
What rumour of what mystery?
| About the poet |
|
| By the same poet |
| An Epitaph |
| Wordsworth’s Grave |
| Lacrimae Musarum |
| The Ballad of Semmerwater |
| Our Men |
| The Prince’s Quest |
| Vita Nuova |
| April |
| World Strangeness |
| Estrangement |
| England and Her Colonies |
| Ireland |
| Related books |
| Sir William Watson at amazon.co.uk |
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