TO NORA MAY FRENCH
Importunate, the lion-throated sea,
Blind with the mounting foam of winter, mourns
To cliffs where cling the wrenched and laboured roots
Of cypresses, and blossoms granite-grown
Lose in the gale their tattered petals, cast
On bleak, tumultuous cauldrons of the tide,
Where fell thy molten ashes.**** Past the bay,
The morning dunes a dust of marble seem—
Wrought from primeval fanes to Beauty reared,