Petit Bot

By Herbert Bird Tourtel, from The Coming of Ragnarök, Guernsey, F B Guerin, 1895.

Dark gray hills, as guardians keeping
Faithful watch, tower to the skies;
And the valley, safely sleeping,
Silently between them lies.

Thence on either hand extending
Loom the cliffs mysteriously,
As a giant slowly bending,
Half unwilling, to the Sea.

On the beach, the musing ocean
To the unresponsive sand
Treasured wealth of deep emotion
Casts with free and lavish hand;

Till the twilight air seems laden
With the song of sylph on wave,
With the song of sad sea-maiden
Pensive in her lonely cave.

And I hear the strange sweeet stories
Of its ancient legend lore—
Hear of vanished lands the glories
Weird and wondrous—now no more.

And the shades of evening falling
Slowly steal about the bay,
Star to sister star is calling,
Sweet voiced subtile zephyrs play.