Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.
XII.
I should have known, indeed, that to the brave
All things are servants. But my lost Delight
Was like the ship that founders in a night,
And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's grave
All that is left beside the sobbing wave?
The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight?
XIII.
I had a fleet of ships, and where are they?