The Beach - Theodor Storm

Towards the bay now flies the gull

And twilight gathers low,

Where, over watered mudflats,

Is reflected evening glow.

Birds of grey are flitting

Across the watery lea;

Islands lie like dreams

In mists upon the sea.

I hear the ferment of the mud

With its mysterious sound,

The cry of lonely birds-

Like this, is it always found.

Once more the gentle shudder

Until the winds subside

When voices are discerned

That with the deep confide.

---

Theodor Storm (1817- 1888) Denmark*

Translated by David Paley

Source: Poems Without Frontiers

* Note: Storm's hometown is now part of Germany, but during his lifetime was part of Denmark