XVII
THE sands are alive with sunshine,The bathers lounge and throng,And out in the bay a bugleIs lilting a gallant song.
The clouds go racing eastward,The blithe wind cannot rest,And a shard on the shingle flashesLike the shining soul of a jest;
While children romp in the surges,And sweethearts wander free,And the Firth as with laughter dimples …I would it were deep over me!
1875