Classic Poem

I came to the city that looks towards the sea,
But found on my table no scallop for me!
There were bills from the butcher, and billets from girls,
Things common as pebbles, and precious as pearls;
There were volumes of poetry, volumes of prose, —
By fifty new poets whom nobody knows;
There were things fair to look at, and things sweet to smell,
Engravings and nosegays, — but devil a shell!
\
Now, my lady, I teased her with many a prayer,
When she went to the ocean, to think of me there,
And to write me a letter at Sudbury Oaks, —
A page full of gossip, and all the best jokes!
This, indeed, she denied me, but whispered, " Write me,
And then I will think of you, down by the sea. "
" Oh, think of me everywhere , lady — farewell!
But to show that you think of me, send me a shell. "

Then I went to the greenwood, — I slept in the shade
Of the midsummer branches that sang serenade;
There I breathed the fresh meadows, I drank the warm vine,
I tasted the perfume that weeps from the pine,
And I lay by the brookside, a-listening the bee,
And was lulled by the locust, — but thought of the sea;
I picked the green apples by chance as they fell,
And I fed me with berries, — but sighed for my shell.

Back and forth to the wood with no song on my lips,
Back and forth to the city to gaze on the ships,
To eye the tall vessels and smell of the sea, —
But scallop or cockle comes never to me!
I wander at daybreak, I sit late at night,
And I think many things, but have no heart to write;
No heart, dear, to speak of; 't is mute in its cell: —
Could Apollo make music deprived of his shell?