The white foam flash’d—ay, joyously, and thou
Wert left with all the solitary main
Around thee—and thy beauty in my heart,
And thy meek, sorrowing love—oh! where could that depart?
LXIII.
I will not speak of woe; I may not tell—
Friend tells not such to friends—the thoughts which rent
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell
Across the billows to thy grave was sent,
Thou, there most lonely! He that sits above,