As if the salt-sea-blood that years ago
        Won the fore-elder Vikings Cumberland,
Leapt in their veins, the glad, tumultuous band
Sped to the shore, and gleaming, to and fro
The bathers hurried; some, more grave, would know
What treasures lay upon the generous sand,
And here and there the lover with his hand
Would trace a name the waves should hide at flow.
Ah, happy feet; this fresh, unwrinkled shore
Forgives all mischief ye shall make in play,
And though to-morrow’s sun shall find no trace
Of all your frolic—tides must rise apace,
Sorrow and pain—yet to the bitterest core
Of life’s drear sands, shall sink the memory of to-day.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 96)