We have no heart for the fishing - we have no hand for the oar - |
All that our fathers taught us of old pleases us now no more. |
All that our own hearts bid us believe we doubt where we do not deny - |
There is no proof in the bread we eat nor rest in the toil we ply. |
|
Look you, our foreshore stretches far through sea-gate, dyke, and groin - |
Made land all, that our fathers made, where the flats and the fairway join. |
They forced the sea a sea-league back. They died, and their |
work stood fast. |
We were born to peace in the lee of the dykes, but the |
time of our peace is past. |
|
Far off, the full tide clambers and slips, mouthing and testing all, |
Nipping the flanks of the water-gates, baying along the wall; |
Turning the shingle, returning the shingle, changing the set of the sand... |
We are too far from the beach, men say, to know how the outworks stand. |
|
So we come down, uneasy, to look; uneasily pacing the beach. |
These are the dykes our fathers made: we have never known a breach. |
Time and again has the gale blown by and we were not afraid; |
Now we come only to look at the dykes - at the dykes our fathers made. |
|
O’er the marsh where the homesteads cower apart the |
harried sunlight flies, |
Shifts and considers, wanes and recovers, scatters and sickens and dies - |
|
We are surrendered to night and the sea - the gale and the tide behind! |
|
At the bridge of the lower saltings the cattle gather and blare, |
Roused by the feet of running men, dazed by the lantern-glare. |
Unbar and let them away for their lives - the levels drown as they stand, |
Where the flood-wash forces the sluices aback and the |
ditches deliver inland. |
|
Ninefold deep to the top of the dykes the galloping breakers stride, |
And their overcarried spray is a sea - a sea on the landward side. |
Coming, like stallions they paw with their hooves, going |
they snatch with their teeth, |
Till the bents and the furze and the sand are dragged out, |
and the old-time hurdles beneath. |
|
Bid men gather fuel for fire, the tar, the oil, and the tow - |
Flame we shall need, not smoke, in the dark if the riddled sea-banks go. |
Bid the ringers watch in the tower (who knows how the |
dawn shall prove?) |
Each with his rope between his feet and the trembling bells above. |
|
Now we can only wait till the day, wait and apportion our shame. |
These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same. |
Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed: |
Now, it may fall, we have slain our sons, as our fathers we have betrayed. |
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
|
These were the dykes our fathers made to our great profit and ease. |
But the peace is gone and the profit is gone, with the old |
sure days withdrawn... |
|