On the South Coast of Cornwall.
There lives a land beside the western sea1
The sea-salt makes not barren, for its hills2
Laugh even in the winter time ; the bubbly rills3
Dance down their grades, and fill with melody4
The fishers’ hearts ; for these, where’er they be,5
Sing out salt choruses ; the land-breeze fills6
Their sweetened lungs with wine which it distils7
From emerald fat field and gorse gold lea. 8
Like a thrown net leans out the ample bay.9
The fishers’ huddled cabins crowd and wedge,10
Greedy, against the rugged treacherous edge11
Of their great liquid mine renewed alway.12
The fishers have no thought but of the strong13
Sea, whence their food, their crisp hair, and their song.14