The sea is here, it hath not any shore,

Nor moves with moving of wind-driven waves

Which, undulant and writhing—naked slaves

To the uneasy wanderer of heaven’s floor,

Bow sullen backs beneath their master’s store

He brought with viewless hands from broken graves—

The sea is here, and in its silent caves

Moves not, tho the wind clamors more and more.

The sea is here, an infinite undertone;

But lo! upon its surface I descry

Two floating bubbles, wonderfully blown

Toward each other, flame-like from the sky—

Meet—melt with lyric splendor into one—

Then, wind-prick’d, vanish—o’er the Sea, a cry!