UP here, where the air's very clear And the hills slope away nigh down to the bay, It is very like Heaven ... For the sea's wine-purple and lies half asleep In the sickle of the shore and, serene in the west, Lion-like purple and brooding in the even, Low hills lure the sun to rest. Very like Heaven. ... For the vast marsh dozes, And waving plough-lands and willowy closes Creep and creep up the soft south steep; In the pallid North the grey and ghostly downs do fold away. And, spinning spider-threadlets down the sea, the sea-lights dance And shake out a wavering radiance. Very like Heaven. ... For a shimmering of pink. East, far east, past the sea-lights' distant blink, Like a cloud shell-pink, like the ear of a girl, Like Venice-glass mirroring mother-o'-pearl, Like the small pink nails of my lovely lady's fingers, Where the skies drink the sea and the last light lies and lingers, There is France. |