Edna St. Vincent Millay — Exiled

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.