I will think no more of the sea!
Of the big green waves And the hollowed shore,
Of the brown rock caves No more, no more Of the swell and the
And the bubbling foam.
Memory dwells in my far away home,
She has nothing to do with me.
She is old and bent With a pack On her back.
Her tears all spent,
Her voice, just a crack.
With an old thorn stick She hobbles along,
And a crazy song Now slow, now quick,
Wheeks in her throat.
And every
While there's light on the shore She searches for something;
Her withered claw Tumbles the seaweed;
She pokes in each shell Groping and
Until the night Deepens and darkens,
And covers her quite,
And bids her be silent,
And bids her be still.
The ghostly feet Of the whispery
Tiptoe beside her.
They follow, follow To the rocky caves In the white beach hollow . . .
She hugs her hands,
She sobs, she shrills,
And the echoes shriek In the rocky hills.
She moans: "It is lost!
Let it be!
Let it be!
I am old.
I'm too cold.
I am frightened . . . the sea Is too loud . . . it is lost,
It is gone . . .
Memory Wails in my far away home.
