This solitary shore with its sunlit sandhills,
Its many-coloured, multiform shells and seaweed,
Is the magnetic haunt of vagrant poets.

Here brisk young poet-breezes, with cunning carelessness,
Scribble curious patterns of dry, intricate verse
Upon the silken flanks of sleeping sandhills.

Here bluff grey-bearded bards, with joyous painful labour,
Leave long lines of rhyme, studded with shining metaphors
Of shell and seaweed, on the broad-backed beach.

Here wind and wave (modern subtlety and
Ancient simplicity—and beauty) are each
As welcome as night-sacrificing sunlight.

Let us now then hail and welcome each—
The new electric-volted lamp and the old
Candle-bearing lanthorn—with grateful gladness.