Dropped from the wings of Eros, where it fell.
I see her take a flute of coral from
A listening Triton; and on Ithakan rocks
High seated at the starry close of day,—
When sad the moon rose from her salty couch,
Gazing with sorrow on her face of sorrow,—
Pipe pensive airs,—plaintive as Sirens sing
In streaming caves beneath the ocean wall,—
Till hoar Poseidon cleared his wrinkled front
And stilled his surgy clamors to a sigh.