Winifred Webb

THE WIDE grey sweep of ocean and the long white curl of foam,

The ever-pleading wash of waves, the never-ceasing moan:

I used to scorn their beauty with a heart that spurned its home.

Oh for the silver shining of fair cities o’er the sands!

Oh for the song of dusky throats in dim and distant lands!

They reached to me as women reach their slim and lovely hands.

I followed ’neath the alien sky and through the stranger’s door;

And now I crown my wandering with peace that asks no more

Than just to lie and watch the surf along the dear home shore.