Eugene Lee-Hamilton

The hollow sea-shell, which for years hath stood On dusty shelves, when held against the ear Proclaims its stormy parent, and we hear The faint, far murmur of the breaking flood. We hear the sea. The Sea? It is the blood In our own veins, …

To keep through life the posture of the grave, While others walk and run and dance and leap.

Fourteen small broidered berries on the hern Of Circe's mantle, each of magic gold; Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that rolled Into the sea, for pearls to come to them; Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem With which Medea human fate …