Here, quayside clamour, shining fish displayed
        Upon the streaming stones, loud jests, and all
The noises of that sea-god’s festival
The daily harvest of the nets has made;
Here, rival echoes and shouts of trade,
A harbour’s tide that changes – flow and fall:
There, changeless rest, an Abbey ruin, a hall,
A Church, and round it, dead in quiet laid.
Oh, happy men! who, wearied of the deep,
Or tired of busy chaffering down below,
May look to Heaven above the smoky air,
And find a stretch of grass, as tranquil now
As when rough Caedmon fed the Abbey sheep,
Kept calm by death and consecrate to prayer.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 166)