Dover Beach
The
sea
is
calm
to-night.
The
tide
is
full,
the
moon
lies
fair
Upon
the
straits;—on
the
French
coast
the
light
Gleams
and
is
gone;
the
cliffs
of
England
stand,
Glimmering
and
vast,
out
in
the
tranquil
bay.
Come
to
the
window,
sweet
is
the
night-air!
Only,
from
the
long
line
of
spray
Where
the
sea
meets
the
moon-blanch'd
land,
Listen!
you
hear
the
grating
roar
Of
pebbles
which
the
waves
draw
back,
and
fling,
At
their
return,
up
the
high
strand,
Begin,
and
cease,
and
then
again
begin,
With
tremulous
cadence
slow,
and
bring
The
eternal
note
of
sadness
in.
Sophocles
long
ago
Heard
it
on
the
AEgean,
and
it
brought
Into
his
mind
the
turbid
ebb
and
flow
Of
human
misery;
we
Find
also
in
the
sound
a
thought,
Hearing
it
by
this
distant
northern
sea.
The
Sea
of
Faith
Was
once,
too,
at
the
full,
and
round
earth's
shore
Lay
like
the
folds
of
a
bright
girdle
furl'd.
But
now
I
only
hear
Its
melancholy,
long,
withdrawing
roar,
Retreating,
to
the
breath
Of
the
night-wind,
down
the
vast
edges
drear
And
naked
shingles
of
the
world.
Ah,
love,
let
us
be
true
To
one
another!
for
the
world,
which
seems
To
lie
before
us
like
a
land
of
dreams,
So
various,
so
beautiful,
so
new,
Hath
really
neither
joy,
nor
love,
nor
light,
Nor
certitude,
nor
peace,
nor
help
for
pain;
And
we
are
here
as
on
a
darkling
plain
Swept
with
confused
alarms
of
struggle
and
flight,
Where
ignorant
armies
clash
by
night.
