| Dear Reynolds, I have a mysterious tale | |
| And cannot speak it. The first page I read | |
| Upon a lampit rock of green sea weed | |
| Among the breakers.—'Twas a quiet eve; | |
| The rocks were silent—the wide sea did weave | 90 |
| An untumultuous fringe of silver foam | |
| Along the flat brown sand. I was at home, | |
| And should have been most happy—but I saw | |
| Too far into the sea; where every maw | |
| The greater on the less feeds evermore:— | |
| But I saw too distinct into the core | |
| Of an eternal fierce destruction, | |
| And so from happiness I far was gone. | |
| Still am I sick of it: and though to-day | |
| I've gathered young spring-leaves, and flowers gay | 100 |
| Of periwinkle and wild strawberry, | |
| Still do I that most fierce destruction see, | |
| The shark at savage prey—the hawk at pounce, | |
| The gentle robin, like a pard or ounce, | |
| Ravening a worm.—Away ye horrid moods, | |
| Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well, | |
| You know I'd sooner be a clapping bell | |
| To some Kamschatkan missionary church, | |
| Than with these horrid moods be left in lurch. | |
| Do you get health—and Tom the same—I'll dance, | 110 |
| And from detested moods in new romance | |
| Take refuge.—Of bad lines a centaine dose | |
| Is sure enough—and so "here follows prose." | |