In what cold seas, under what winters' reign,
— Who knows, or can know, nacreous, fragile Shell! —
Hast thou mid current, wave and tidal swell,
In shallows and abysses restless lain?

To-day, beneath the sky, far from the main,
Thou hast in golden sands thy bed made well;
But vain thy hope, for still within thy cell
Despairing sounds great ocean's mournful strain.

My soul a prison all sonorous lies,
Where, as of old, complaining tears and sighs
With sad refrain make clamor as in thee;

So from the heart-depths She alone can fill,
Dull, slow, unfeeling, yet eternal still,
The far, tumultuous murmur moans in me.