SEA LONGING

A THOUSAND miles beyond this sun-steeped wall

Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,

The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land

With the old murmur, long and musical;

The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,

And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,—

Tho’ I am inland far, I hear and know,

For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.

I would that I were there and over me

The cold insistence of the tide would roll,

Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,—

Then with the ebbing I should drift and be

Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,

Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.