THE MARINER

The violet scent is sacred

Like dreams of angels bright;

The hawthorn smells of passion

Told in a moonless night.

But the smell is in my nostrils,

Through blossoms red or gold,

Of my own green flower unfading,

A bitter smell and bold.

The lily smells of pardon,

The rose of mirth; but mine

Smells shrewd of death and honour,

And the doom of Adam's line.

The heavy scent of wine-shops

Floats as I pass them by,

But never a cup I quaff from,

And never a house have I.

Till dropped down forty fathoms,

I lie eternally;

And drink from God's own goblet

The green wine of the sea.