I stood by the unvintageable sea

　　Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray；

　　The long red fires of the dying day

　　Burned in the west； the wind piped drearily；

　　And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee：

　　'Alas！' I cried， 'my life is full of pain，

　　And who can garner fruit or golden grain

　　From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly！'

　　My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw，

　　Nathless I threw them as my final cast

　　Into the sea， and waited for the end.

　　When lo！ a sudden glory！ and I saw

　　From the black waters of my tortured past

　　The argent splendour of white limbs ascend！