Where cold channels fill with the tide, slow-rising,
where gnarled cedars offer a meagre shadow,
Spreading wind-warped boughs,
and the sere brown marsh-grass
Shivers and rustles,
Bending ever, lying in far-swept wind lines;
Does he yearn for intimate hearth-side voices ---
He whose whole life sprang
to the touch of friendship –--
Lies he not lonely?