The sea swings owre the slants of sand,
⁠All white with winds that drive;
The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,
⁠Where nae man comes alive.

At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf
⁠A light flame sinks and springs;
At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf
⁠A low flame leaps and clings.

What light is this on a sunless shore,
⁠What gleam on a starless sea?
Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore
⁠Such births as should not be?