| MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, | |
| Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave! | |
| Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; | |
| Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, | |
| And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: | 5 |
| In hearing of the ocean, and in sight | |
| Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white. | |
| If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, | |
| I never could have made it half so sure, | |
| As by the unblest kisses which upbraid | 10 |
| The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! | |
| 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore | |
| What we have forfeited. I see no sin: | |
| The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, | |
| No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: | 15 |
| We are betray'd by what is false within. | |
