Those moments, tasted once and never done, br Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun. br A far-off blow-hole booming like a gun- br br The seagulls plane and circle out of sight br Below this thirsty, thrift-encrusted height, br The veined sea-campion buds burst into white br br And gorse turns tawny orange, seen beside br Pale drifts of primroses cascading wide br To where the slate falls sheer into the tide. br br More than in gardened Surrey, nature spills br A wealth of heather, kidney-vetch and squills br Over these long-defended Cornish hills. br br A gun-emplacement of the latest war br Looks older than the hill fort built before br Saxon or Norman headed for the shore. br br And in the shadowless, unclouded glare br Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where br A misty sea-line meets the wash of air. br br Nut-smell of gorse and honey-smell of ling br Waft out to sea the freshness of the spring br On sunny shallows, green and whispering. br br The wideness which the lark-song gives the sky br Shrinks at the clang of sea-birds sailing by br Whose notes are tuned to days when seas are high. br br From today's calm, the lane's enclosing green br Leads inland to a usual Cornish scene- br Slate cottages with sycamore between, br br Small fields and tellymasts and wires and poles br With, as the everlasting ocean rolls, br Two chapels built for half a hundred souls.