The sea beats in at Blakeney--
  Beats wild and waste at Blakeney;
    O'er ruined quay and cobbled street,
    O'er broken masts of fisher fleet,
  Which go no more to sea.
  The bitter pools at ebb-tide lie,
  In barren sands at Blakeney;
    Green, grey and green the marshes creep,
    To where the grey north waters leap
  By dead and silent Blakeney.
  And Time is dead at Blakeney--
  In old, forgotten Blakeney;
    What care they for Time's Scythe or Glass;
    Who do not feel the hours pass,
  Who sleep in sea-worn Blakeney?
  By the old grey church in Blakeney,
  By quenched turret light in Blakeney,
    They slumber deep, they do not know,
    If Life's told tale is Death and Woe;
  Through all eternity.
  But Love still lives at Blakeney,
  'Tis graven deep at Blakeney;
    Of Love which seeks beyond the grave,
    Of Love's sad faith which fain would save--
  The headstones tell the story.
  Grave-grasses grow at Blakeney
  Sea pansies, sedge, and rosemary;
    Frail fronds thrust forth in dim dank air,
    A message from those lying there:
  Wan leaves of memory.
  I send you this from Blakeney--
  From distant, dreaming Blakeney;
    Love and Remembrance: These are sure;
    Though Death is strong they shall endure,
  Till all things cease to be.

A. J. R.