Classic Poem

When a smooth wind runs on the far green sea,
This coward thought of mine feels pleasantly,
And lost to poetry itself, can lie
Wrapt in a wistful quietness of eye.
But when the deeps are moved, and the waves come
Shuddering along, and tumbling into foam,
I turn to earth, which trusty seems, and staid,
And love to get into a green wood shade;
In which the pines, although the winds be strong,
Can turn the bluster to a sylvan song
A wretched life a fisherman's must be,
His home a ship, his labour in the sea,
And fish, the slippery object of his gain:—
I love a sleep under a leafy plane,
And a low fountain coiling in mine ear,
Which fills the soul with smiling, not with fear.