Classic Poem

There lives a land beside the western sea
The sea-salt makes not barren, for its hills
Laugh even in winter time; the bubbly rills
Dance down their grades, and fill with melody
The fishers' hearts; for these, where'er they be,
Sing out salt choruses; the land-breeze fills
Their sweetened lungs with wine which it distils
From emerald fat field and gorse gold lea.

Like a thrown net leans out the ample bay.
The fishers' huddled cabins crowd and wedge,
Greedy, against the rugged treacherous edge
Of the great liquid mine renewed alway.
The fishers have no thought but of the strong
Sea, whence their food, their crisp hair, and their song.