LIKE shovels white of porcelain In pyramids of spices deep, Are shells half scooped into brown sand Which ebbing waves drew on a heap. Like blush by smooth nail overlain Are others; five for either hand, Nay, plenty for both hands and feet Of Venus when she walks the strand, Escaped from perfumed temple's heat. Like wail which for Adonis rang, Drawn up and round a hollow maze, In others dwells a wealth of sound That she prefers to all men's praise. Made coral by a moment's pang And snapt off from true hearts are found The branching red rich veins of those Who, wounded by her son, have drowned, Seeking a "sea-change" for their woes. The idle nymphs in caves far down, Secluded life-long from alarms, Where distance lulls the billow's roar And moony sea-light dreams of day, Made every shell that strews the shore. They with their handiwork do crown Long tresses, twine their grand white arms With chains of cowries, and array Their necks and bosoms..Naught of lily (Since Venus never tells) know they, Naught of the tender violet's charms, Of daisy naught, nor daffodilly. |