WHEN THE WIND BLOWETH IN FROM 

 THE SEA. 



THE strong winds that swept the lingering beauty 

 from the woods still sway the branches. Day 

 after day the storm-signal swings from the white staff 

 on the hill. Day after day comes in an angry sea, 

 strewing fresh heaps of weed along the shining sands, 

 and tearing new gaps in the coastguard path that, 

 marked by heaps of whitened stones, wanders along 

 the brink of the crumbling cliff. Day after day, about 

 the lonely cottages nestling close under the steep shore 

 of the cove, the air is filled with flying foam, the white 

 wings of sea-birds, and the thunder of the surge. 



