Poems (Rossetti, 1901)/The Bourne
THE BOURNE.
UNDERNEATH the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass.
Youth and health will be but vain, Beauty reckoned of no worth: There a very little girth Can hold round what once the earth Seemed too narrow to contain.
SONG.
OH what comes over the sea, Shoals and quicksands past; And what comes home to me, Sailing slow, sailing fast?
A wind comes over the sea With a moan in its blast; But nothing comes home to me, Sailing slow, sailing fast.
Let me be, let me be, For my lot is cast: Land or sea all's one to me, And sail it slow or fast.