Classic Poem

ON THE B EACH

The long coast curves and the cliffs rise up,
Red and white and green;
The surf slips in with a sucking din
Of shingle-wash between.
The light gulls float with crimson bills
Set seaward — not one cries:
And we are alone, alone with them,
Under the aimless skies.

The tide slips in, of the moon released,
Its rhythm gives us rest,
And in its pause there are hid sweet awes
That sink into the breast
With silent soothing — till the coast
Is lost in mystic gloam,
And till deep in my dreams I hear
Your voice that calls me home.