A Cornish Prayer
In the sky a seagull flies,
And the waves come rolling in,
A mighty hoard of green weeds march,
Before the fading light of an orange breeze,
Is it here? Is it here? That my soul's contentment may be found?
Why turn back to those tiresome days,
When hidden melodies do here resound?
Oh, those harmonies that Imperfect are swelling,
Call in their tides and spill forth so wholly;
Until the world seems clear and open and free,
For not a trace of the old days are recalled unto the sea...