Unrest

The sheltered farm had always been her home Yet in her dwelt no liking for the loam. A visionary child, it always seemed, Her real world, the fantasy she dreamed. When, climbing long green hills she found the sea, Came seething urge and longing to be free; The courtships of village lovers left her cold. Could life go on like this till she was old, And would she always long and hope in vain? Within her blood there ran an alien strain.