Rocks

Through the pasture lie the rocks, grey as the sea in a fog,
As the sea in a mist.
(O breath of my yearning, O sea, breaking grey in a fog!)
The rocks rise tumultuous, the rocks are waves.
Flee from them, they are in pursuit;
Lichen-crusted their summits, rolling most mightily.
Flee from the rocks, the pale-crested waves of the meadows!