The Child on the Cliffs
Edward Thomas
1878 to 1917
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Mother, the root of this little yellow flower
Among stones has the taste of quinine.
Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun shines so bright,
And grasshopper works at his sewing-machine
So hard. Here’s one my hand, mother, look;
I lie so still. There’s on your book.
But I have something to tell strange. So leave
Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear,—
Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place,—
And listen now. Can you hear what I hear
out? Now and then the foam there curls
And a white arm out like a girl’s.
Fishes and ring no bells. There cannot be
A chapel or between here and Devon,
With fishes or gulls ringing bell,—hark!—
Somewhere under the sea or up heaven.
“It’s the bell, my son, out in the
On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day.”
I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales.
should like to be lying under that foam,
Dead, able to hear the sound of the bell,
And that you would often come
And rest, listening happily.
should be happy if that could be.