God, how the sea pounds in upon the West!
It comes in roaring, like a beast unchained,
To bash itself to pieces on the rocks,
Again, again, again, and then again.
The whole Atlantic in its fury breaks
Its teeth against the battlements of Clare
And wears deep gouges in her fabled cliffs,
As if it meant to dig the island up
And carry her across to Germany,
Or Poland, or the marches of the East,
Depositing the Irish in some strange,
Undreamed-of land, where they, no doubt, would shrug,
And go about their business, as they do.
It takes more than an elemental god
To shake the Celtic temper; after all,
They’ve had the ocean pounding on their door
For more than six millennia, and they
Still haven’t stirred from field and fireside
To let the poor damn soggy bastard in.
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