Not loveliest of the plain."
—Hood, Progress of Art.
"Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge
Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam;
Some point to white eruptions of the surge—
But she is vanish'd to her shady home,
Under the deep inscrutable, and there
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair."
—Hood, Hero and Leander.
"Ever drifting, drifting, drifting,