How it seemed to us

A grey flat lying out against the sea,
Where the strait guts are choked with weeded wood
And tangled cordage, moving aimlessly
Upon the lazy leaden ebb or flood;
A waste of stunted gorze and withered tree,
Warped by a wind that chills the running blood
And crisps the slime masked puddles in the mud,
A place of desolation verily—
And yet this place is dearer to us two
Than any other spot we know on earth—
The North wind ushered in our Passion's birth, 
When by the waste went out my heart to you—
And the blind tide at ebb crawled back again
To scatter golden spume flakes at our feet
And hail us—who had lived a time of pain
And being free, had found deliverance sweet.