Look, Stranger at this Island Now by W.H. Auden

Reading this poem last night in bed, I was on the verge of tears.  Why, I wonder?  Is the clue in the poem or in the reader's mind?  I must have read it a dozen times.  I still wonder.

Look, stranger, at this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.


Here at the small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam, and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
and the shingle scrambles after the suck-
ing surf, and the gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.


Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands;
And the full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
that pass the harbour mirror
and all the summer through the water saunter.
                                                                        November 1935