WESTWARD I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the winter day. There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree, The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea. But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain. . . . . . Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas. And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray. And I remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And dreaming of the voice that, safe in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BELLS OF HEAVEN by RALPH HODGSON ENGLAND IN 1819 by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY HIS PRAYER TO PECUNIA by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE IMPROVISATORE: ALBERT AND EMILY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AT HOME DURING THE BALL by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |