Sconset

Did you ever hear of 'Sconset, where there 's nothing much but moors,
And beach and sea and silence and eternal out-of-doors —
Where the azure round of ocean meets the paler dome of day,
Where the sailing clouds of summer on the sea-line melt away,
And there 's not an ounce of trouble
Anywhere?

Where the field-larks in the morning will be crying at the door,
With the whisper of the moor-wind and the surf along the shore;
Where the little shingled houses down the little grassy street
Are gray with salt of sea-winds, and the strong sea-air is sweet
With the flowers in their door-yards;
Me for there!