THAT voice I hear,-how heard I cannot tell,-
Although my home is this, seems from my home:
There... still it trails along and murmurs -Come�;
Like the slow death of sound within a bell,
Or like the humming whine in some pink shell
Wet with the brittle beadage of the foam
Which bird-eyed damsels stoop for when they roam
By the old sea. Were't not exceeding well
To shake my soul out of this tiresome life
For a call any-whence and any-whither?
That voice knows all the life I have or had,
And mocks me not,-it's whisper is too sad.
Even to attain calm sorrow lures me thither,
Since here this search for joy wearies like strife.