And at its mouth is heaped and tossed
A tangle of old rubbish lost,
Poor refuse of a sordid sort,
The fickle waves’ rejected sport.
A thin green ooze exudes and drips
Over the sea-shells gaping lips,
And through all speech the grey gull’s cry
Comes, like a strident misery.
Who enter there stand side by side,
There is no room for hate or pride.
And I were glad my Heaven should be
That little cave beside the sea!
58
