Classic Poem

Pure is Hatsuse's mountain-brook, —
So pure it mirrors all the clouds of heaven;
Yet here no fishermen for shelter look
When sailing home at even:
'Tis that there are no sandy reaches,
Nor shelving beaches,
Where the frail craft might find some shelt'ring nook.
Ah, well-a-day! we have no sandy reaches:
But heed that not;
Nor shelving beaches:
But heed that not!
Come a jostling and a hustling
O'er our billows gaily bustling:
Come, all ye boats, and anchor in this spot!