Washed at my feet by the curded foam of sluggish waves...

Washed at my feet by the curded foam of sluggish waves,

As the rain splinters and the mud gleams with malicious light,

Like a frail shell, million tinged and quaintly wrought

The thought of you, which held against mine ear

Hums all the echoed melodies of your soul;

The sigh of wearied life, the ebbing sweet of love,

The little tunes of wine mixed with the chants of death,

The following of beauty's fugitive limbs

Whose classic feet, and rapturous pale breast

Gleam on the clouds and foam,

Call to her lovers.—

Thus standing in the blasting of the wind,

And numb with ceaseless drip of moments from the cloud

Of lowering hours, I toy with this strange relic of the sea,

Turned with such perfectness from her tumultuous wheels,

Thoughts of you million tinged and quaintly wrought.