In
a hundred thundering tides
Breaking in foam, the thread
White, unlost, like a bride's
Beautiful, gathered lace,
Foretelling the lover's pace,
That lover of foam, the hot
Sea, for one hour, one place,
One moment, caught in a knot.
No sooner come than gone:
So light, it is not weighed down
By any thought that will stay.
You have seen time's flood that would drown
Surpassed in butterflies' play,
Yet intricately surpassed;
For rather you chose to fast
Than sell that delicate stream
Of lace on the altar cast,
A gift, for night to redeem:
Lace, fragile, fine,
In
a magic, a moving design,
A silence, in which I see
Through the sea-engendered vine
A glory, not of the sea.
