The Tempest. The Shore.

“To be haunted by the drowned cries of a child, carried on the threatening gale, beneath the surge and shifting shingle on the beach, is to abjure the undying romance of the surrounding sea.
Yet I cleave to the shore, and heave to the rope, tethering the distant sounding buoy. It will not break, will not succumb to the vast and silencing waters.”

The deeps have music soft and low

  When winds awake the airy spry,

It lures me, lures me on to go

  And see the land where corals lie.

  The land, the land, where corals lie.

By mount and mead, by lawn and rill,

  When night is deep, and moon is high,

That music seeks and finds me still,

  And tells me where the corals lie.

  And tells me where the corals lie.

Yes, press my eyelids close, ’tis well,

Yes, press my eyelids close, ’tis well,

  But far the rapid fancies fly

To rolling worlds of wave and shell,

  And all the land where corals lie.

Thy lips are like a sunset glow,

  Thy smile is like a morning sky,

Yet leave me, leave me, let me go

  And see the land where corals lie.

  The land, the land, where corals lie.

Where Corals Lie. Richard Garnett C.B. (27th February 1835-13th April 1906).