II.
AGE

Why did I build my cottage on a hill
Facing the sea?

Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope
Down to the deep blue billowy breast of hope,
Surging and sweeping,
laughing and leaping,
Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore,
Rustling the sands that know my step no more,
I should have found a valley, deep and still,
To shelter me.

There flows the river, and it seems asleep
So far away,
Yet I remember whip of wave and roar
Of wind that rose and smote against the oar,
Smote and retreated,
Proud but defeated,
While I rejoiced and rowed into the brine,
Drawing on wet and heavy -straining line
The great cod quivering from the deep
As counterplay.

What is the solace of these hills and vales
That rise and fall?
What is there glorious in the greenwood glen,