The storm-soul's change and start
Pause, lull, and cease;
In my unquiet heart
Is born a peace.
Loneliness.
Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is still
As any hill-girt lake; the long brown beach
Lies bare and wet. As far as eye can reach
There is no motion. Even on the hill
Where the breeze loves to wander I can see
No stir of leaves, nor any waving tree.
There is a great red cliff that fronts my view
A bare, unsightly thing; it angers me
With its unswerving-grim monotony.
The mackerel weir, with branching boughs askew
Stands like a fire-swept forest, while the sea
Laps it, with soothing sighs, continually.
There are no tempests in this sheltered bay,
The stillness frets me, and I long to be
Where winds sweep strong and blow tempestuously,
To stand upon some hill-top far away
And face a gathering gale, and let the stress
Of Nature's mood subdue my restlessness.
An impulse seizes me, a mad desire
To tear away that red-browed cliff, to sweep
Its crest of trees and huts into the deep;
To force a gap by axe, or storm, or fire,
And let rush in with motion glad and free
The rolling waves of the wild wondrous sea.
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