Poems (Tree)/Washed at My Feet by the Curded Foam of Sluggish Waves
WASHED at my feet by the curded foam of sluggish waves,As the rain splinters and the mud gleams with malicious light,Like a frail shell, million tinged and quaintly wroughtThe thought of you, which held against mine earHums all the echoed melodies of your soul;The sigh of wearied life, the ebbing sweet of love,The little tunes of wine mixed with the chants of death,The following of beauty's fugitive limbsWhose classic feet, and rapturous pale breastGleam on the clouds and foam,Call to her lovers.—Thus standing in the blasting of the wind,And numb with ceaseless drip of moments from the cloudOf lowering hours, I toy with this strange relic of the sea,Turned with such perfectness from her tumultuous wheels,Thoughts of you million tinged and quaintly wrought.
1916