ON THE SOUTH COAST OF CORNWALL

            There lives a land beside the western sea
            The sea-salt makes not barren, for its hills
            Laugh even in winter time; the bubbly rills
            Dance down their grades, and fill with melody
            The fishers’ hearts; for these, where’er they be,
            Sing out salt choruses; the land-breeze fills
            Their sweetened lungs with wine which it distils
            From emerald fat field and gorse gold lea.
            Like a thrown net leans out the ample bay.
            The fishers’ huddled cabins crowd and wedge,
            Greedy, against the rugged treacherous edge
            Of their great liquid mine renewed alway.
            The fishers have no thought but of the strong
            Sea, whence their food, their crisp hair, and their song.

                                                                                                JOHN GRAY.