galen

The grey sea and the long black land,
And the yellow half-moon large and low,
And the startled little waves that leap,
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach
Three fields to cross till a farm appears
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,

I am there...