She bore her heart these many troublous years
Before me, like a shield. And she is dead.
Her hand ‘twas set the crown upon my head;
Her heart’s blood dyed the kingly robe for me.
Dank seaweed crowns her, and the bitter sea
Enshrouds with realmless purple!
Round and round,
Swirled in the endless nightmare of the drowned,
Her fond soul gropes for something vaguely dear
That lures, eludes forever. Shapes that leer,