Exiled

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
&nbsp This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
&nbsp Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
&nbsp Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
&nbsp Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
&nbsp Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
&nbsp Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,
&nbsp Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
&nbsp Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning
&nbsp Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
&nbsp And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels
&nbsp Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
&nbsp Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining
&nbsp Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
&nbsp Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

I should be happy,—that was happy
&nbsp All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
&nbsp Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy
&nbsp Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
&nbsp I have a need of water near.