LXII.
The wind rose free and singing: when for ever,
O’er that sole spot of all the watery plain,
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to strain
Then rose the reckless wind! Before our prow
The white foam flash’d—ay, joyously, and thou
Wert left with all the solitary main
Around thee—and thy beauty in my heart,
And thy meek, sorrowing love—oh! where could that depart?