I stood by the unvintageable sea

　　Till the wet waves drenched¹ face and hair with spray；

　　The long red fires of the dying day

　　Burned in the west； the wind piped drearily²；

　　And to the land the clamorous³ gulls⁴ did flee：

　　'Alas⁵！' I cried， 'my life is full of pain，

　　And who can garner⁶ fruit or golden grain

　　From these waste fields which travail⁷ ceaselessly！'

　　My nets gaped⁸ 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 ascend⁹！