Oh joy, where sea and river meet,
To watch how swift the busy Waders ply
Their rosy stilts in pools of bluest sky;
To hear cool sprinklings from their dainty feet!—
To lean and listen to the flutings sweet
Of Sandpiper, or sad-voiced Plover’s cry,
While the grave Heron at his fishery
Gleams like a silver sickle through the heat!
Blest be the tide that bared these tawny shelves
For such a world of food and innocent play!
Man, weary man, with sorrow digs and delves,
But is not glad in winning bread, as they
Who wait on God, and, careless of themselves,
Take that which Nature else had thrown away.
(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 114)