  Weary the cry of the wind is, weary the sea, Weary the heart and the mind and the body of me. Would I were out of it, done with it, would I could be A white gull crying along the desolate sands! Outcast, derelict soul in a body accurst, Standing drenched with the spindrift, standing athirst, For the cool green waves of death to arise and burst In a tide of quiet for me on the desolate sands. Would that the waves and the long white hair of the spray Would gather in splendid terror and blot me away To the sunless place of the wrecks where the waters sway Gently, dreamily, quietly over desolate sands! |
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