And turning north around the hill,

The flat sea like an adder curled,

And a flat rock amid the sea

That gazes towards the ugly town,

And on the sands, flat and brown,

A thousand naked bodies hurled

Like an army overthrown.

And turning south around the hill,

Fields flowering in the curling waves,

And shooting from the white sea-walls

Like a thousand waterfalls,

Rapturous divers never still.

Motion and gladness. O this hill

Was made to show these cliffs and caves.

So he thought. But he has never

Stood again upon that hill.

He lives far inland by a river

That somewhere else divides these lands,

But where or how he does not know,

Or where the countless pathways go

That turn and turn to reach the sea

On this or that side of the hill,

Or if, arriving, he will be

With the bright divers never still,

Or on the sad dishonoured sands.