To the cold wasted corse of Agathè,
And sigh'd; but ever he would turn again
A gaze to that green island on the main.

The bark is drifting through the surf, beside
Its rocks of gray upon the coming tide;
And lightly is it stranded on the shore
Of pure and silver shells, that lie before,
Glittering in the glory of the sun;
And Julio hath landed him, like one
That aileth of some wild and weary pest;
And Agathè is folded on his breast,--
A faded flower! with all the vernal dews
From its bright blossom shaken, and the hues
Become as colourless as twilight air--
I marvel much, that she was ever fair!




CHIMERA III


Another moon! and over the blue night
She bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,
Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;
As on she floateth with her image cold
Enamell'd on the deep. A sail of cloud
Is to her left, majestically proud!
Trailing its silver drapery away