The morning sea that flushes far and near,
Is thine, O trembling globulet of spray,
Because, forsooth, his image, glass’d in all
The sea and world, is glass’d, as well, in thee!—
Fool, fool! yet dear, dear folly!
These my thoughts;
My words—all I recall now—came at last
When slowly sauntering back we reach’d her home.
“Would God,” I sigh’d, “the time might come for us,
When, looking toward the future now so lone,