Come home! the year has left you old;
Leave those grey stones; wrap close this shawl,
Around you for the night is cold;
Come home! he will not hear your call.
No sign awaits you here but the beat
Of tides upon the strand,
The crag's gaunt shadow with gull's feet
Imprinted on the sand,
And spars and sea-weed strewn
Under a pale moon.
Come home! he will not hear your call;
Only the night winds answer as they fall
Along the shore,
And evermore
Only the sea-shells
On the grey stones singing,
And the white foam-bells
Of the North Sea ringing.