But echoes brief as breath from which they spring.
I craved the mission less of roaring waves
Than of the rare wrought shells that, evermore,
When storms are gone, suggest their living presence.
LXVI.
Anon it happen’d that through others’ hands
My tales, pour’d forth to voice my loneliness
In echoing talk and song, were framed in plays,
And then were phrased in music; and, in time,
Arose like sighings of a human wind