METHINKS I am upon a barren shore
Where there are rocks and spume and bitter weeds,
And grimly silent reefs; the shifting sand,
Though seeming firm, is swaying to the waves
That, hoarsely pulsing, surge upon the beach
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And, baffled, feign with seething hiss to yield,
The while, pervading deep, they turn the sand
To their dread purpose. Hither I have come
Across a varied plain that stretches back
Till dimly lost in light; but bright-eyed Hope
Has slowly vanished in the quicksand dread,
And left me here alone. My tearful prayer
Is answered by the petrel's mournful cry,
The scud of spray, the hoarse-voiced waves that move
In mockery the shudder of the sand,
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