Land of the earlier morn, the later night,
        Of distance beyond distance; broader skies
Where the lark sings, and where the swallow flies,
This unperplexed, and that with clearer sight;
Here swirl no streams, no prattle of delight
Comes from the brook, no bubbling springs arise;
Deep channelled waters, where the bulrush sighs,
Slope, ladder-like, to Heaven, silver bright.
Here pale-faced prisoned labour never comes,
No furnace roar the shepherd’s sleep alarms,
Only at times the steamy thresher hums
Among the poplars whisp’ring round the farms;
And all the year, to urge the ploughman’s hand,
The great sea-sickle gleams about the land.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 217)