Travelogue

In Tavistock the rooks were crying,

The woods were loud with rain.

And I walked blindly there, denying

That dead love-too long in dying-

Ever should wake again.

In Looe the wind was like a river

Against the huddled town.

The tide lunged in. The gulls blew over.

I felt the smitten granite shiver,

And wished the world might drown.

At Widdecombe the moor was yellow

With gorse. A lark took wing,

Too swift and sweet for eye to follow.

My bent heart straightened like a willow,

Bore leaf, and tried to sing.