Where once the waters of your face

　　Spun to my screws， your dry ghost blows，

　　The dead turns up its eye；

　　Where once the mermen through your ice

　　Pushed up their hair， the dry wind steers

　　Through salt and root and roe.

　　Where once your green knots sank their splice

　　Into the tided cord， there goes

　　The green unraveller，

　　His scissors oiled， his knife hung loose

　　To cut the channels at their source

　　And lay the wet fruits low.

　　Invisible， your clocking tides

　　Break on the lovebeds of the weeds；

　　The weed of love's left dry；

　　There round about your stones the shades

　　Of children go who， from their voids，

　　Cry to the dolphined sea.

　　Dry as a tomb， your coloured lids

　　Shall not be latched while magic glides

　　Sage on the earth and sky；

　　There shall be corals in your beds

　　There shall be serpents in your tides，

　　Till all our sea-faiths die.