Across the isle to where the rocky shore,
Forming a little, crag-encircled bay,
Sloped steeply to the level of the sea;
But, as he neared the edges of the tide,
Startled, he paused, as, marvelling, he saw
A woman on the shelving, wet, black rock,
Lying, forlorn, among the storm-wrack, white
And motionless; still wet, her raiment clung
About her limbs, and with her wet, gold hair
Green sea-weed tangled. Oswald on her looked