Beneath the headland where the gales
Last winter spat their bitterest white,
Where twisted iron plates and rails
Bear witness to their turbulent might,
Small figures in the summer sun
Paddle among the rocks for fun.

And there they hunt for water-flowers
Scarlet anemones and shells,
While fairies from their coral towers
And barnacled sea-citadels
Peep up at wonder-widened eyes
That look so fancifully wise.

Then baby-laughter shrilly rings
Down to the long forgotten wrecks;
And finds through weedy eddyings
The sleepers round the sunken decks;
And sweet with living lightness mocks
The staid and immemorial rocks.