WHEN the wind on the grey salt sea blows softly, then my weary spirits
rise, and the land no longer pleases me, and far more doth the calm
allure me. {208} But when the hoary deep is roaring, and the sea is
broken up in foam, and the waves rage high, then lift I mine eyes unto
the earth and trees, and fly the sea, and the land is welcome, and the
shady wood well pleasing in my sight, where even if the wind blow high
the pine-tree sings her song. Surely an evil life lives the fisherman,
whose home is his ship, and his labours are in the sea, and fishes
thereof are his wandering spoil. Nay, sweet to me is sleep beneath the
broad-leaved plane-tree; let me love to listen to the murmur of the brook
hard by, soothing, not troubling the husbandman with its sound.