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Hark, where Poseidon’s White racing horses Trample with tumult The shelving seaboard!

Older than Saturn, Older than Rhea, That mournful music, Falling and surging

With the vast rhythm Ceaseless, eternal, Keeps the long tally Of all things mortal.

How many lovers Hath not its lulling Cradled to slumber With the ripe flowers,

Ere for our pleasure This golden summer Walked through the corn-lands In gracious splendour!

How many loved ones Will it not croon to, In the long spring-days Through coming ages,

When all our day-dreams Have been forgotten, And none remembers Even thy beauty!

They too shall slumber In quiet places, And mighty sea-sounds Call them unheeded.