Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/72

 And at its mouth is heaped and tossed A tangle of old rubbish lost, Poor refuse of a sordid sort, The fickle waves’ rejected sport. A thin green ooze exudes and drips Over the sea-shells gaping lips, And through all speech the grey gull’s cry Comes, like a strident misery. Who enter there stand side by side, There is no room for hate or pride. And I were glad my Heaven should be That little cave beside the sea!