39 Wanderer
The silvery beach, a riband around the flowing hair of the sea,
Where gleam the foam-flowers garlanded in multitudinous nebulous rings:
Here, on the frontier of many worlds and the billow-rocked cradle of eternal sleep,
No sound, no music, no silence that a wounded soul can heal.
A longing more tempestuous than the craven breeze-possesséd deep,
And tears that outweigh the salt of the woeful brine,
Yet no sleep dream-robbed, or dream-laden, nor even death’s pallid peace;
But a ceaseless crying over my heart’s forsaken valleys
Where love like a wraith haunts the empty tombs of memory.