When each spring returns, then my heart yearns
With an inwardly emotion,
To hear once more the surf on shore,
Down by th' Atlantic ocean.
To hear again the waves refrain
At dusk when day is dying,
Or the seagull's cry when waves roll high,
And o'er head the scud is flying.
Where fishing boats so proudly floats
After their spring's o'er-hauling,
So neat and trim from stern to stem
Ready for the season's calling.
And to watch each smak on a windard tack
Close reefed, and sea spray flying,
As they come about at the harbour's mouth
When the summer's day is dying.
Far from that shore where the breakers roar,
I hear not the sea's commotion,
But the wind and rain oft brings again
Echoes from the briny ocean.
February, 1950
With an inwardly emotion,
To hear once more the surf on shore,
Down by th' Atlantic ocean.
To hear again the waves refrain
At dusk when day is dying,
Or the seagull's cry when waves roll high,
And o'er head the scud is flying.
Where fishing boats so proudly floats
After their spring's o'er-hauling,
So neat and trim from stern to stem
Ready for the season's calling.
And to watch each smak on a windard tack
Close reefed, and sea spray flying,
As they come about at the harbour's mouth
When the summer's day is dying.
Far from that shore where the breakers roar,
I hear not the sea's commotion,
But the wind and rain oft brings again
Echoes from the briny ocean.
February, 1950
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