The little meadow by the sand,
Where Tamsin lies, is ringed about
With acres of the scented thyme.
The salt-wind blows in all that land;
The great clouds pass across the skies;
Rare wanderers from the ferry climb,
One might sleep well enough, no doubt,
Where Tamsin lies.

Tamsin has sunshine now and wind,
And all in life she might not have,
The silence and the utter peace
That tempest-winnowed spirits find
On slopes that front the western wave.
The white gulls circle without cease o'er Tamsin's grave.