Romance

(To A. H. R. on North Cliff, Lynton, Devon)

White-caps hurry to meet the shore An hundred fathoms down. Gray sails are shimmering on the wind Far out from Lynmouth town.

High crags above us are whispering keen, The heather and the ling Laugh to the sky as driven by The wild gulls cry or cling.

And, where the far sun like a god Scatters the mist, lies Shore. Is it Romance's magic realm Spring reigns forever o'er?

Romance that our morning hearts could see Across the darkest foam? Then do we know it well, my love, Because it is our Home.