Was it for this I left the pleasant strand
Of England, and the leafy country lanes,
The ploughs, the cattle, and the creaking wains?
Ye sounds that only poets understand,
Of sheep-bells tinkling o'er a sunny land,
Was it for this I left you, for the gains
Of dew-sprent brow and deep internal pains,
Of feeble voice and nerveless clammy hand?
Never again shall ocean with his roar
Attract me from the firm-built homes of men.
Let others steer from shore to farthest shore,
Climbing the liquid hills that now and then
Break and o'erwhelm them--I shall roam no more,
Once landed on old Dover Pier again.
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