| |
| ON ear and ear two noises too old to end | |
| Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore; | |
| With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar, | |
| Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend. | |
| |
| Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend, | 5 |
| His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score | |
| In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour | |
| And pelt music, till none ’s to spill nor spend. | |
| |
| How these two shame this shallow and frail town! | |
| How ring right out our sordid turbid time, | 10 |
| Being pure! We, life’s pride and cared-for crown, | |
| |
| Have lost that cheer and charm of earth’s past prime: | |
| Our make and making break, are breaking, down | |
| To man’s last dust, drain fast towards man’s first slime. | |
| |
| See Notes. |
| |
