| On ear and ear noises too old to end |
| Trench―
right, the tide that ramps against the shore; |
| With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or
all roar, |
Frequenting there while moon shall wear
and wend.
|
| Left hand, off land, I hear the lark
ascend, |
| His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd
score |
| In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl,
and pour |
And pelt music, till none's to spill
nor spend.
|
| How these two shame this shallow and
frail town! |
| How ring right out our sordid turbid
time, |
Being pure ! We, life's pride and
cared-for crown,
|
| Have lost that cheer and charm of
earth's past prime: |
| Our make and making break, are
breaking, down |
To man's last dust, drain fast towards
man's first slime.
|
| |
