  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. Sometimes I wonder if I am the child Of calm, law-loving parents, or a stray From some wild gypsy camp. I cannot stay Quiet among my fellows; when this wild Longing for freedom takes me I must fly To my dear woods and know my liberty. It is this cringing to a social law That I despise, these changing, senseless forms Of fashion! And until a thousand storms Of God's impatience shall reveal the flaw In man's pet system, he will weave the spell About his heart and dream that all is well. Ah! Life is hard, Dear Heart, for I am left To battle with my old-time fears alone I must live calmly on, and make no moan Though of my hoped-for happiness bereft. Thou wilt not come, and still the red cliff lies Hiding my ocean from these longing eyes. |
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