Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
       &nbsp This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
       &nbsp Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
       &nbsp Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
       &nbsp Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
       &nbsp Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
       &nbsp Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,
       &nbsp Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
       &nbsp Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning
       &nbsp Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
       &nbsp And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels
       &nbsp Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
       &nbsp Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
       &nbsp Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
       &nbsp Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

I should be happy,—that was happy
       &nbsp All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
       &nbsp Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy
       &nbsp Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
       &nbsp I have a need of water near.