These hills, to hurt me more, That am hurt already enough,— Having left the sea behind, Having turned suddenly and left the shore That I had loved beyond all words, even a song's words, to convey,
And built me a house on upland acres, Sweet with the pinxter, bright and rough With the rusty blackbird long before the winter's done, But smelling never of bayberry hot in the sun, Nor ever loud with the pounding of the long white breakers,—
These hills, beneath the October moon, Sit in the valley white with mist Like islands in a quiet bay,
Jut out from shore into the mist, Wooded with poplar dark as pine, Like points of land into a quiet bay.
(Just in the way The harbour met the bay)
Stricken too sore for tears, I stand, remembering the Islands and the sea's lost sound— Life at its best no longer than the sand-peep's cry, And I two years, two years, Tilling an upland ground!