Talk not of leafy summer woods,
Their wealth of sweetest minstrelsy,
Their sylvan shades and solitudes,—
I languish for my own blue sea!

Breathing the blossom-breath that scents
The verdurous branches of the pine,
My longing grows but more intense
For flavors of the salt sea brine.

I stand and call: I stretch my hands,
Imploring, to yon distant main:—
“O sea-lapped shore, O pebbly lands,
Fold me in your embrace again.”

Only the murmurous winds send back
An answer,—winds that pine and moan
Along the wild wood's leafy track
With ever melancholy tone.

O glory-crested waves, that flaunt
Your brightness in this bright sunshine!
Still, still your far-off voices haunt,
And ever shall, this heart of mine.