e repeated depths,
Infinite calm, as though I did commune
With the still spirit of the universe.
So leaning, from my hair did I unwind
This chain of flowers, and dropped it in the sea;
Blessing that twilight hour, the port, the bay,
The deep dim isle of interlunar woods,
My love, and all the world, and naming them
Waters of rest--now lies my garland here.
What words are these thus furrowed on the shore?
These are the very turns of Theseus' hand:

If from thy hook the fish to water fall,
Think not to catch that fish again at all.

Too well my thought unlocks these cruel lines.
Oh drench of grief! I thank ye, piteous powers,
Who sent not this without forewarning drops.
Oh miserable me! distressful me!
Despised, disdained, deserted, desolate:
Oh world of dew! Oh morning water drops!
Lack-lustre, irksome, dull mortality!
Oh now, oh now, that heaven all is black,
Wherein the rainbow of my joy did stand!
Oh love! oh life! oh life entire in love!
All lost, all gone, or just so little left
As is not worth the care to throw away!
All lost, all gone, wrecked, rifted, sunk, devoured:
Wrecked with false lights on Theseus' rocky heart!
Oh man, perverse, dry-eyed, untender man,
Enchanting man, so sleek so serpent-cold!
Was it for this that thou didst swear to me,
By all the gods in the three worlds at once,
That thou didst love distractedly, and I,
With certain tender and ingenuous tears,
Did presently confess to thee as much?
Was it for this, that I, who had a home,
Like an Elysium in the lap of Crete,
Did beckon buffets, and, for thee, did dare
The rough unknown and outside of the world?
Was it for this that thou didst hither bring me,
Unto this isle of thorny loneliness,
And, in the night, without foreargued cause,
Any aggrievance, any allegation,
Didst, like a coward traitor, run from me?
Thou man of snow! thou art assailed by this--
Be sure of it--thou art begrimed as black
As if thou hadst been hanged a thousand years
Under the murky cope of Pluto's den.
Oh agony! but thou shalt know my soul,
Which gropes for daggers at the thought of this.
Yea, from the day-beams of adoring love,
Goes headlong to as vast a reprobation.
Thou, Theseus, wast a cloud, and I a cloud,
Quickened from thee with such perv