Wet, streaming sand, and the tide going down;
Boats on the beach, and the sails patched and brown,
And the heath-smoke hanging blue up above the drowsy town.

Strong scent of weed blowing off the harbour-bar,
A liner's trail of smoke on the skyline faint and far,
And the bell-buoy clanging, and a lonely star.

Wet, gleaming shore, and the sea-gull sweeping free,
A swinging lamp alight in the ropes by the quay,
And the wind singing low of a ship that waits for me.