It seems unreal; I own it strange,

Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide,

Raise quiring on its carol-tune;

I watch the golden-sickled moon,

And clearer voices call besides.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie

On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;

O Moon! whose golden sickle's gone;

O Voices all! like ye I die!