Haste thee down to the sea—
To the foaming strife at the Bar
Where the grey breakwaters are,
And the buoys roll merrily
In the dip and heave of the sea
Coming over the Bar.
Bear me with thee, O River,
On the rush of thy flood to the sea.
I am sick of this smooth, green land,
I long for the breeze off the sand;
Take me away with thee
To the shifting face of the sea,
And the low, wind-bitten strand.
Bear me swiftly, O River,
My heart is athirst for the sea,
To the dotted herring floats
And the brown tar-fragrant boats,
And the little wave washed quay—
I am sick of hedge-row and tree,
And the hills in their stifling coats.