Boulogne. Upon the Cliffs: Noon. 

The sea is in its listless chime,
     Like Time's lapse rendered audible;
     The murmur of the earth's large shell.
In a sad blueless beyond rhyme
     It ends; Sense, without Thought, can pass
     No stadium further. Since Time was,
This sound hath told the lapse of Time.

No stagnance that Death wins,--it hath
     The mournfulness of ancient Life,
     Always enduring at dull strife.
Like the world's heart, in calm and wrath,
     Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
     Last utterly, the whole sky stands,
Grey and not known, along its path.