I stood by the unvintageable sea

Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray；

The long red fires of the dying day

Burned in the west； the wind piped drearily；

And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee：

'Alas！' I cried， 'my life is full of pain，

And who can garner fruit or golden grain

From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly！'

My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw，

Nathless I threw them as my final cast

Into the sea， and waited for the end.

When lo！ a sudden glory！ and I saw

From the black waters of my tortured past

The argent splendour of white limbs ascend！