But propt on sand and pebbles rolly-olly
How sweet (while briny breezes fan us lowly)
With half-dropt eyelids still,
Beneath a boat-side tarry, coally,
To watch the long white breakers drawing slowly
Up to the curling turn and foamy spill--
To hear far-off the wheezy Town-Crier calling,
"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" Truly, TOBIAS mine,
This _solitude à deux_ is most divine;
A Congress we--of Two; where no outfalling
Is possible. Our Anti-Labour line
Is wordlessly prolonged, stretched out beside the brine.