The sands are alive with sunshine,
The bathers lounge and throng,
And out in the bay a bugle
Is lilting a gallant song.
The clouds go racing eastward,
The blithe wind cannot rest,
And a shard on the shingle flashes
Like the shining soul of a jest;
While children romp in the surges,
And sweethearts wander free,
And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . .
I would it were deep over me!
More verses by William Ernest Henley
- London Types: Bus Driver
- To My Wife
- There Is A Wheel Inside My Head
- Scherzando
- Here They Trysted, And Here They Strayed