Other Coast

LONELY is the water, and the ship friendless,
Moving remote and slowly up the islands,
Having no part with hills or valleys or headlands,
But gazing at them each becoming clearer,
And boats in the ripple water not so far now
Returning home into their native harbor.
There are white houses, piled high in the harbor,
There are feathered headlands full of bonfires,
And crumbling brown fields ploughing, and the sea gulls
At furrow clear to gaze on through the glasses;
Around the lonely ship the gulls go swooping,
But never join us to the fortunate ploughland.
O happy are they who live here, landed home,
On these their islands that we gaze at alien;
We have no shadow of part with those who live here,
But only vertical cliffs we have and the tumbling
Waves of unending sea; not here our headlands,
Remoter they and lonely thither sailing.