Beyond the plain,
beyond the distant hills
the coast is calling,
even in its silent diffidence
proclaiming richness to horizon's crust,
that here is where the world begins—
here is where a man may throw
his soul into the wind, and gather
echoes for the journey home.
Here the ember glow of vigil
still betrays old fire of mariners
who lie beneath the sea, of broken men
who saw the land again,
and of the ones who dared
to carry England to the left of God.
Here is where one breathes
the scent of history,
here where romance was hovering
when rest alone was hungered for.
And it was here where blue-eyed visionaries
and shot out for the stars.
And there is yet a timeless phalanx
built of heroes lined upon the shore,
the ones who face new hazards every day,
do not quail before the hot demands
of solvency. We're dealing
with a system made of irony,
of reticence, yet steel resolve
amid a fantasy annointed with desire.
No wonder death appeals,
for it is either summary completion,
or an open highway
to a plain where more aesthetic sophistry
proclaims its awe.
It is the choice afar
that rides upon the mist above the land,
that reaches with a man
beyond the twilight of the day,
beyond the churlish midnight toll
to celebrate the flourish
of the dawn.