SECOND PART

THE sea in the stones is singing, A woman binds her hair With yellow, frail sea-poppies, That shine as her fingers stir.

While a naked man comes swiftly Like a spurt of white foam rent From the crest of a falling breaker, Over the poppies sent.

He puts his surf-wet fingers Over her startled eyes, And asks if she sees the land, the land, The land of her glad surmise.