  I know a little village Where fisher folk abide; The dark pine woods behind it, The southern sea beside. There rosy pink crape-myrtles In every dooryard grow, And through the glossy live-oaks The salt sea breezes blow. At break of day the fishers Sail out to sea to reap The harvest that they sowed not, The harvest of the deep. Then, when their nets are emptied, They set their sails for land, To heap the shining fishes Upon the shining sand. Where little barefoot children Await them, eager-eyed, And play the while with sea-shells Cast upward by the tide. And all seem so content there, From worldly care so free, I would that I could find it, This secret of the sea!
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