And vibrating to what we speak.
We ask too much, we seek too oft;
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth and not aloft.
* * * *
O sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
O voices all! like you I die!