The Winter Sea

Come home! The year has left you old; Leave those grey stones; wrap close this shawl Around you for the night is cold; Come home! He will not hear you call; No sign awaits you here but the beat Of tides upon the strand, The crag’s gaunt shadow with gull’s feet Imprinted on the sand,

And spars and sea-weed strewn Under a pale moon.

Come home! He will not hear you call; Only the night winds answer as they fall Along the shore,

And evermore

Only the sea-shells

On the grey stones singing, And the white foam-bells Of the North Sea ringing.

— E. J. Pratt, “On the Shore”