O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove—
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove,
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Our talk at the first had been jolly,
But our words soon were slow as our walk,—
Our young memories scarcely could walk;