How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done.
With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun,
Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.
Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses
From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping.
So many a wife for cruel man's caresses
Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear
A gallant front to this world's gaudy glare.
Ilfracombe, 1849.
More verses by Charles Kingsley
- The Invitation: To Tom Hughes
- Christmas Day
- The Find
- Juventus Mundi
- On The Death Of Leopold: King Of The Belgians