The northern wind
Does beckon to me,
To come and sit by winter's sea.
The scent of summer's life at rest,
Is feigned within the surging crest,
The soaring gulls search greedily,
For morsels purged up from the sea.
The weaker gist drift on the waves,
Unceasingly to liquid graves,
Cold waters rob them of their shells,
To echo forth the distant swells.