With silver foams, that fell in fury o’er
A thousand sunny breakers. Far above,
There stood a wild and solitary grove
Of aged pines, all leafless but their brows,
Where a green group of tempest-stricken boughs
Was waving now and then, and to and fro,
And the pale moss was clustering below.
Then Julio saw, and bent his head away
To the cold wasted corse of Agathè,
And sigh’d; but ever he would turn again