Classic Poem

Through what cold Oceans, since what ancient year,
—O pearly Shell and fragile, who shall say!—
The surge, the current and the tide have they
Whirled you in their abysses green and drear?

Far from the bitter floods, you now have here
Made a soft bed of golden sand and grey;
Your hope is vain; long and despairing, aye
In you the sea's great moaning voice we hear.

Sonorous to its core my soul is, for,
As from your whorl in plaintive accents pour
The sob and sighing of the sea's old stir,

So dull and slow and yet eternal well
The far-off, stormy, murmuring beat and swell
From the depth of this heart too full of Her.