Once at Swanage

The spray sprang up across the face of the moon,

And all its light loomed green

As a witch-flame's weirdsome sheen

At the minute of an incantation scene;

And it greened our gaze-that night at demilune.

Roaring high and roaring low was the sea

Behind the headland shores;

It symboled the slamming of doors,

Or a regiment hurrying over hollow floors...

And there we two stood, hands clasped: I and she!