Ii

You are useless, O grave, O beautiful. The landsmen tell it--I have heard You are useless.

And the wind sounds with this And the sea, Where rollers shot with blue Cut under deeper blue.

O but stay tender, enchanted, Where wave-lengths cut you Apart from all the rest. For we have found you. We watch the splendour of you. We thread throat on throat of freesia For your shelf.

You are not forgot, O plunder of lilies-- Honey is not more sweet Than the salt stretch of your beach.