Sea-Born

The meadow stretches far away, Tall silver tree trunks far and near Bend neither to the east or west, No ocean breeze blows here.

Horizon lines are grey and cool, And snow-bleached grasses dry and sere Rise up above the sorrel loam, No ocean breeze blows here.

To one born by a wind-swept coast This peaceful scene is flat and drear, He longs for swaying storm-tossed trees, High-crested waves, and foam-swept weir.

Horizons blue where ships appear And beacon to an unknown sphere.