Little Towns
On gay mornings, foreign craft Bring to the port their load And the claque of wooden sabots sounds Along the cobbled road. Strange scents, strange tongues Bring joy and mystery. . . . Little towns are never lonely If they’re by the sea.
On grey mornings, old men sit And rub tobacco in hardened hand. While telling tales of long ago, They look away from the land; The youth of the village listen well As they think of days to be. . . . Little towns are never lonely If they’re by the sea.
Evening sunsets, afterglow, Long grey shadows creep, As yellow sails of anchored fleet Are molten gold in the deep; And figures of lovers are patterned And blended against the sky, In the cool of evening scudding home, The native sea-birds fly.
Ah, hear the patter of children’s feet As they run the docks so free. . . . Little towns are never lonely If they’re by the sea.