There shall be no more sea: no wild winds bringing
Their stormy tidings to the rocky strand,
With its scant grasses, and pale sea-flowers springing
From out the barren sand.
No angry wave, from cliff and cavern hoary,
To hearts that tremble at its mournful lore;
Bearing on shattered sail and spar the story
Of one who comes no more;
The loved and lost, whose steps no more may wander
Where wild gorse sheds its blooms of living gold,
Nor slake his thirst where mountain rills meander
Along the heathy wold.
Never again through flowery dingles wending,
In the hushed stillness of the sacred morn,
By shady woodpaths, where tall poppies, bending,
Redden the ripening corn.
Neath whispering leaves his rosy children gather
In the grey hamlet's simple place of graves,
Round the low tomb where sleeps his white-haired father,
Far from the noise of waves.
There shall be no more sea! No surges sweeping
O'er love and youth, and childhood's sunny hair:
Naught of decay and change, nor voice of weeping
Ruffle the fragrant air
Of that fair land within whose pearly portal
The golden light falls soft on fount and tree;
Vexed by no tempest, stretch those shores immortal,
Where there is no more sea.
