Miranda and I were at sport with a shell, Twisted and pink, by an ocean blue. "Hark!" said I, "and its lips shall tell, Murmuring low, of my love to you." "Yes," she answered, with dimpling eyes, "Empty sound is your love to me, Vain as a hollow shell that lies Tossed by the waves of a fickle sea." "Nay," I urged, as I held my ground, "None of the powers in heaven above Could tear from that shell its murmuring sound, Or wrench from my heart its constant love." More I said, and I said it well, But better far at the end spake she: "Fie, my lad, on this proxy shell! Speak the message yourself to me!" |