I love the Sound in all but this:
That winds are weak and still demur
Along the waste of loneliness,
And keep me far from her.

My will is strong to skim the miles,
But what am I that must depend
On such inconstant, airy smiles?
O Æolus, unbend!

The drooping sail is idly swung
Half-drowsily as moves the swell,
And yonder warning iron tongue
Can hardly tone his bell.

What if, when favor brings me there,
She should be gone that is my joy;
What if, perhaps, she should not care,
Or like the winds were coy!