At Granite Island’s seaward side
We sat, and watched the surging tide,
The rapid rip, the capping crest,
The stinging spray, the ragged nest;
The long slow wheel of the sea bird, moaning,
The deep-felt urge of the white sea, foaming.

You laid your head on me, and cried:
“How long, how long?” And I replied:
“This day is ours, and for the rest….
Ah well,” I sighed, and sought your breast;
You turned, long-lost at the deep shades forming
While I caught tears at the tip of day, dawning.

David Lewis Paget