A Ballad Of Sark

    High beyond the granite portal arched across     Like the gateway of some godlike giants hold     Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss     East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold     Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold     Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark     Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark     Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree.     None would dream that grief even here may disembark     On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.     Rocks emblazoned like the mid shields royal boss     Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.     None would dream that all this moorlands glow and gloss     Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold     Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold     Now no sun relume from hopes belated spark     Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark     Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,     While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark     On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.     Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss     On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.     Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss     Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold     Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,     Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,     Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,     Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,     Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark     On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.     Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,     Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,     Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.     Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,     On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.