Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/230



sea swings owre the slants of sand, All white with winds that drive; The sea swirls up to the still dim strand, Where nae man comes alive.

At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf A light flame sinks and springs; At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf A low flame leaps and clings.

What light is this on a sunless shore, What gleam on a starless sea? Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore Such births as should not be?