His haunts are by the brackish ways
Where rivers and sea-currents meet;
He is familiar with the sprays,
Over the stones his flight is fleet.
Low, low he flutters, like a rat
That scampers up a river-bank;
Swift, lizard-like, he scours the flat
Where pools are wersh and weeds are dank,
The fresh green smell of inland groves,
The pureness of the upper air,
Are poorer than his pungent coves
That hold strange spices everywhere.
Strong is the salt of open sea;
Far out, the virgin brine is keen:
No home is there for such as he,
Out of the beach he is not seen.
By shallows and capricious foams
Are the queer corners he frequents,
And in an idle humour roams
The borderland of elements.