This was the land’s end:

The last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,

Cramped on nothing. Black

Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding

With no bottom, or anything on the other side of it,

Whitened by the faces of the drowned.

Now it is only gloomy, a dump of rocks

Leftover soldiers from old, messy wars.

The sea cannons into their ear, but they dont budge.

Other rocks hide their grudges under the water.

from Finisterre by Sylvia Plath