Ethel Wynne Candwell ... Dunwich
Here where the waves of the ages sunder
The shifting cliffs till they crash and fall,
Here where the tongues of the North Sea thunder
To the wind's wild laughter, the seabirds' call;
Here I would pause awhile and wonder
At the desolation covering all.
Yonder a crumbling street would borrow
The weeds of the sea for its winding sheet,
And ruined homes in their voiceless sorrow
Humble themselves at the cliff's red feet,
For time will cover them all tomorrow
With tides that hunger and waves that beat.
At the edge of the cliff in their fearless glory,
The flowers of a ravished garden bloom,
But only the winds can tell the story
Of the vanished feet that would hither roam,
Or the waves of the sea, grown old and hoary,
That buried them deep in sand and foam.
For the waves care little for rank or station,
And the winds are whimpering round the dead,
Whose souls cry out at the desecration
That flung their bones on the ocean's bed.
Oh! waste and silence and desolation,
And a passing thought for the years long fled!
For ever the wasteful sea will cumber
The shifting sands where its billows feed,
When I am wrapped in a dreamless slumber,
And the winds will call and I shall not heed,
When I am one of the ghostly number
Who knew the secret of wrack and weed.