IF thou wert here I should not wander thus, Scribbling in aimless mood on the wild sand The letters of thy name, to teach the land From Joyous Gard to Castle Perilous What love is ours, nor, lest men mock at us, Return in haste, to find the breeze has fanned The shore, and stirred the surface, like a hand, With smoothing fingers, light and tremulous. Alas! by force of loving I become Weak as an eddy in the sandy wind, Faint as yon phantom-ruin scarce defined Against the pale mysterious fields of foam; Again along the misty strand I roam, Dull, drowsy, silent, patient and resigned. |