My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
As unremembering how I rose or why,
And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,
Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,
And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.

Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,
There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.
It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs
Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.

By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped
Round myriad warts that might be little hills.

From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,
And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.

(And smell came up from those foul openings
As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)

On dithering feet upgathered, more and more,
Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,
All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.

Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns,
Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.

I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten,
I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.

Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean,
I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.

And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.
And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further,
Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,
And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.

The samphire gatherer to the cliff-face clings 
Halfway 'twixt sky and sea:
She has but youth and courage for her wings,
And always Death about her labour sings,
And fain would loosen steady hand or knee, 
And cast her down among life's broken things,
But danger shakes with fitful murmurings 
No such brave heart as she. 

The gulls are crying in her heedless ears 
That strength is made a mock 
At grips with the great sea. She has no fears, 
But treads with naked feet the stair of rock 
That has but known for years on weary years 
The touch of sea-gulls' wings, the sea that rears 
Her waves against it with recurrent shock, 
The sun that burns and sears.

She has no fears because her daily bread 
She sees made manifest 
Here in the pendulous weed that tempts her tread 
Upon so wild and dangerous a quest. 
The samphire sways and dangles overhead 
And home is far below; and in that nest 
Are little hungry mouths that must be fed, 
Though Danger be her neighbour and her guest. 

Night brings her little children to her knee 
For daily bread to pray; 
Their father tosses on the open sea, 
Where flashing shoals of silver dolphins play. 
But hungry mouths must feed while he's away, 
So the brave mother clambers day by day,
And pulls the samphire trails, and knows not she 
Is of that school of saints that wear no bay,
But do God's work the still and splendid way.