There is a place beyond the seaside groves

Past yonder rotting yew in low-sloped row,

Not of painted book, nor youth-time rove,

But grim blow and splinter, now far below.

I saw him sail the fifth of blustery May

When rustling wind fought thread-bare chain,

And he in ship of brackish, cracking clay,

Was felled by fate and failed to sail again.

I lost my ring in shameful measure,

Pulled away by greedy fae with treasures

Gold and gay, and moment's pleasures

That begged me betray the forgotten fetter.

So tears did dry, left tracks on sun-swelled cheek

Kissed away by wanton breeze that when it leaves,

Pulls a dampness free, to bead and streak,

And old ears hear from moist and creaking eaves,

"I'll wait for thee."

And old thoughts rise and swell till early sun

Through whipping curtain pierces 'marish hell

Reminder of the lies we tell when time's undone

And on love, once lost, we fail to dwell.

There is a place beyond the seaside groves

Past yonder rotting yew in damned row,

There waits for me one who'll never go.

This I know for he does tell me so.