Crouched on the crowded deck, we watch the sun
In naked gold leap out of a cold sea
Of shivering silver; and stretching drowsily
Crampt legs and arms, relieved that night is done
And the slinking deep-sea peril past, we turn
Westward to see the chilly sparkling light
Quicken the Wicklow Hills, till jewel-bright
In their spring freshness of dewy green they burn.
And silent on the deck beside me stands
A comrade, lean and brown, with restless hands
And eyes that stare unkindling on the life
And rapture of green hills and glistening morn:
He comes from Flanders home to his dead wife,
And I, from England to my son new-born.