Like a frail shell, million tinged and quaintly wrought
The thought of you, which held against mine ear
Hums all the echoed melodies of your soul;
The sigh of wearied life, the ebbing sweet of love,
The little tunes of wine mixed with the chants of death,
The following of beauty's fugitive limbs
Whose classic feet, and rapturous pale breast
Gleam on the clouds and foam,
Call to her lovers.—
Thus standing in the blasting of the wind,