Sara Teasdale — Sea Longing

A THOUSAND miles beyond this sun-steeped wall     Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,     The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land With the old murmur, long and musical; The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,     And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,—     Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know, For I was born the sea's eternal thrall. I would that I were there and over me     The cold insistence of the tide would roll,     Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,— Then with the ebbing I should drift and be     Less than the smallest shell along the shoal, Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.