All day the gulls are crying round the rocks,
And spray is leaping white against their face;
The child is shouting, and the wind is sweet;
Above our heads the flying cloudlets race,
Where we are on the hillside cutting peat.
The sun glints on the waves. I have no fear;
My heart is filled with ancient battle songs;
But when the winter seas are crying loud,
Phantoms of eld, and marching faery throngs,
From strange old tales into my fancy crowd.
They hold before my eyes a bloody plaid—
A wail of warning hurries down the gust,
The door blows open, and the baby cries,
And dark-red drops are trickling in the dust.
Kneeling I fall and cover up my eyes.
O turn ye homeward in the night-tide dusk!
The door stands open, and the sea growls low.
Ah, lad, my candle shines across the night.
The sea-bird hath her mate, but none I know;
Turn ye to me before the morning light.