Long the eastern beaches,
Where brown the seaweed grows,
And over broad salt meadows,
The green tide ebbs and flows.
Above the low-roofed houses,
Two ancient towers rise,
And stand like giant druids,
Against the wind-swept skies.
Through mist or rain or sunshine,
Their prows festooned with foam,
The fishing-boats go outward
Or laden, turn them home.
She watches by the window,
And tearless are her eyes;
She sees not church or tower,
Or sea or wind-swept skies.
She sees not tide or tempest,
Or sun or mist or rain;
Afar her spirit wanders
Upon the Belgian plain.
Where over shell-scarred cities
The mad, red tempest raves,
And poplars sigh and shudder
Above unnumbered graves.