And from the sand he took a silver shell,
That had been wasted by the fall and swell
Of many a moon-borne tide into a ring—
A rude, rude ring; it was a snow-white thing,
Where a lone hermit limpet slept and died,
In ages far away.—“Thou art a bride,
Sweet Agathè! wake up; we must not linger.”
He press’d the ring upon her chilly finger,
And to the sea-bird, on its sunny stone,
Shouted,—“Pale priest! that liest all alone