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| SEARCHING my heart for its true sorrow, | |
| This is the thing I find to be: | |
| That I am weary of words and people, | |
| Sick of the city, wanting the sea; | |
| Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness | 5 |
| Of the strong wind and shattered spray, | |
| Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound | |
| Of the big surf that breaks all day. | |
| |
| Always before about my dooryard, | |
| Marking the reach of the winter sea, | 10 |
| Rooted in sand and dragging driftwood, | |
| Straggled the purple wild sweet pea. | |
| Always I climbed the wave at morning, | |
| Shook the sand from my shoes at night, | |
| That now am caught beneath big buildings, | 15 |
| Stricken with noise, confused with light. | |
| |
| If I could hear the green piles groaning. | |
| Under the windy, wooden piers, | |
| See once again the bobbing barrels, | |
| And the black sticks that fence the weirs; | 20 |
| If I could see the weedy mussels | |
| Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, | |
| Hear once again the hungry crying | |
| Overhead, of the wheeling gulls; | |
| |
| Feel once again the shanty straining | 25 |
| Under the turning of the tide, | |
| Fear once again the rising freshet, | |
| Dread the bell in the fog outside, | |
| I should be happy!—that was happy | |
| All day long on the coast of Maine. | 30 |
| I have a need to hold and handle | |
| Shells and anchors and ships again. | |
| |
| I should be happy, that am happy. | |
| Never at all since I came here. | |
| I am too long away from water; | 35 |
I have a need of water near.
Ainslee’s Magazine | |
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