by Oliver Wendell Holmes

    This is the ship of pearl， which， poets feign¹，

    Sails the unshadowed main，

    The venturous bark that flings

    On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

    In gulfs enchanted²， where the Siren sings，

    And coral reefs lie bare，

    Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

    Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl；

    Wrecked³ is the ship of pearl！

    And every chambered cell，

    Where its dim dreaming life was wont⁴ to dwell，

    As the frail⁵ tenant⁶ shaped his growing shell，

    Before thee lies revealed，

    Its irised ceiling rent， its sunless crypt unsealed！

    Year after year beheld⁷ the silent toil⁸

    That spread his lustrous⁹ coil；

    Still， as the spiral grew，

    He left the past year's dwelling¹⁰ for the new，

    Stole with soft step its shining archway through，

    Built up its idle door，

    Stretched in his last-found home， and knew the old no more.

    Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee，

    Child of the wandering sea，

    Cast from her lap， forlorn！

    From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

    Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn！

    While on mine ear it rings，

    Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings：

    Build thee more stately mansions¹¹， O my soul，

    As the swift seasons roll！

    Leave thy low-vaulted past！

    Let each new temple， nobler than the last，

    Shut thee from heaven with a dome¹² more vast，

    Till thou at length art free，

    Leaving thine outgrown¹³ shell by life's unresting sea！

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