 | At the holy well |  |
102
WITH SEA-SHELLS AND POEMS.
Take up these little sea-shells, Dear,
And press them closely to your ear:
Their vague and desolate monotone
Saddens you with its ceaseless moan.
As if the moon-swayed ocean there
Moved with a vast but dumb despair.
And press them closely to your ear:
Their vague and desolate monotone
Saddens you with its ceaseless moan.
As if the moon-swayed ocean there
Moved with a vast but dumb despair.
Deep in those cells of subtle sound
Some boundless spirit seems prison-bound,
Murmuring of shores where wrecks are strown
And ghosts of tempests walk alone;
Yet, over all—from all apart—
You hear the beatings of your heart.
Some boundless spirit seems prison-bound,
Murmuring of shores where wrecks are strown
And ghosts of tempests walk alone;
Yet, over all—from all apart—
You hear the beatings of your heart.
Take now these poems, vague with woe,
Found with the sea-shells long ago:
Within you hear the sounds that swell
From restless seas and haunt the shell;—
But listen, and your heart shall let
New music silence old regret.
Found with the sea-shells long ago:
Within you hear the sounds that swell
From restless seas and haunt the shell;—
But listen, and your heart shall let
New music silence old regret.
| At the holy well | |