I lay on the verge of a Western cliff

On a waning Summer's day,

And watched the seagulls' skimming flight

As their shrill call filled the bay.

The waves rolled on from pool to pool

To the end of the rock-strewn lea:

Where a glistening stream through a vale sped on,

With its leaping trout, to the sea.

The wind rose, too, from a breath to a blast

As the rising tide drew near,

And the rain-clouds swelled from the distant deep,

So I knew 'twas a storm to fear.

I've lived on that coast for years now,

And I love the roar of the waves

As they lash the seaweed on the shore,

And the cold grey rocks and the caves.