AN old, old house by the side of the sea, And never a picture poet would paint; But I hold the woman above the saint, And the light of the hearth is more to me Than shimmer of air-built castle. It fits as it grew to the landscape there -- One hardly feels as he stands aloof Where the sandstone ends, and the red slate roof Juts over the window, low and square, That looks on the wild sea-water. From the top of the hill so green and high There slopeth a level of golden moss, That bars of scarlet and amber cross, And rolling out to the farther sky Is the world of wild sea-water. Some starved grape-vineyards round about -- A zigzag road cut deep with ruts -- A little cluster of fisher's huts, And the black sand scalloping in and out 'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water. Gray fragments of some border towers, Flat, pellmell on a circling mound, With a furrow deeply worn all round By the feet of children through the flowers, And all by the wild sea-water. And there, from the silvery break o' th' day Till the evening purple drops to the land, She sits with her cheek like a rose in her hand, And her sad and wistful eyes one way -- The way of the wild sea-water. And there, from night till the yellowing morn Falls over the huts and th' scallops of sand -- A tangle of curls like a torch in her hand -- She sits and maketh her moan so lorn, With the moan of the wild sea-water. Only a study for homely eyes, And never a picture poet would paint; But I hold the woman above the saint, And the light of the humblest hearth I prize O'er the luminous air-built castle. |