The Child on the Cliffs

MOTHER, the root of this little yellow flower

Among the stones has the taste of quinine.

Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun

shines so bright,

And the grasshopper works at his sewing-machine

So hard. Here's one on my hand, mother, look;

I lie so still. There's one on your book.

But I have something to tell more strange. So

leave

Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear,--

Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place,--

And listen now. Can you hear what I hear

Far out? Now and then the foam there curls

And stretches a white arm out like a girl's.

Fishes and gulls ring no bells. There cannot be

A chapel or church between here and Devon,

With fishes or gulls ringing its bell,--hark.--

Somewhere under the sea or up in heaven.

"It's the bell, my son, out in the bay

On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day."

Sweeter I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales.

I should like to be lying under that foam,

Dead, but able to hear the sound of the bell,

And certain that you would often come

And rest, listening happily.

I should be happy if that could be.