XXXV
Lines written somewhere in the North Sea
THE laggard hours drift slowly by; while silver mist-wreaths veil the sky
And iron coast wheron, flung high, the North Sea breaks in foam.
When flame the pallid Northern Lights on seeming age-long winter nights,
Then oftentimes for our delight God sends a dream of Home.
And once again we know the peace of little red-roofed villages
That nestle close in some deep crease amid the rolling wealds
That northward, eastward, southward sweep, fragrant with thyme and flecked with sheep,
To where the corn is standing deep above the ripening fields.
And once again in that fair dream I see the sibilant, swift stream—
Now gloomy-green and now agleam—that flows by Furnace Mill,
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