The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine, <br />The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,— <br />O, I am sick for home! <br /> <br /> <br />The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air, <br />And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,— <br />When will the good ship come? <br /> <br /> <br />The wretched stumps all charred and burned, <br />And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,— <br />Why is the world so old? <br /> <br /> <br />The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky <br />Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly, <br />Where are the dead untold? <br /> <br /> <br />The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog, <br />The huge stranded hulk and the floating log, <br />Sorrow with life began! <br /> <br /> <br />And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore, <br />O the wind, and the wind, for evermore! <br />What will become of man?<br /><br />George Santayana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cape-cod-3/
