The Beach Comber

I'd like to return to the world again,
To the dutiful, work-a-day world of men, —
For I'm sick of the beach-comber's lazy lot,
Of the one volcano flaming hot,
With the snow round its edge and the fire in its throat,
And this tropical island that seems a-float
Like a world set in space all alone in the sea. . . .
How I wish that a ship, it would stop for me.
I'm sick of the brown girl that loves me, I'm sick
Of the cocoanut groves, — you can't take me too quick
From this place, though it's rich in all nature can give. . . .
For I want to return where it's harder to live,
Where men struggle for life, where they work and find sweet
Their rest after toil, and the food that they eat. . . .
What? A ship's in the offing? ... dear God, let me hide, —
They're in need of a sailor, are waiting the tide
To put off? ... I will hide where the great cliff hangs sheer —
Give 'em mangoes and goats, and don't tell 'em I'm here!
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