272. Lindisfarne

OUR seer, the net-mender,

The day that he died

Looked out to the seaward

At ebb of the tide;

Gulls drove like the snow

Over bight, over barn,

As he sang to the ebb

On the rock Lindisfarne:

‘Hail, thou blue ebbing!

The breakers are gone

From the stormy coast-islet

Bethundered and lone!

Hail, thou wide shrinking

Of foam and of bubble—

The reefs are laid bare

And far off is the trouble!

For through this retreating

As soft as a smile,

The isle of the flood

Is no longer an isle.…

By the silvery isthmus

Of sands that uncover,

Now feet as of angels

Come delicate over—

The fluttering children

Flee happily over!

To the beach of the mainland

Return is now clear,

The old travel thither

Dry-shod, without fear.…

And now, at the wane,

When foundations expand,

Doth the isle of the soul,

Lindisfarne, understand

She stretcheth to vastness

Made one with the land!’