When the farmers burned the furze away
Where they had heedlessly lived till then
The hermits all made for the sea-shore,
Chose each a far safe hole beneath rocks,
Now more alone than even before.
Nights darker than thickest hawthorn-shade;
The March wind blew in cold off the sea.
They never again saw a sunrise
But watched the long sands glitter westwards.
Their bells cracked, their singing grew harsher.
In August a bee, strayed overboard
Down the high cliff, hummed along the strand.
Three hermits saw him on that long coast.
One spring the high tides stifled them all.