Wearily Stretches The Sand To The Surge, And The Surge To The Cloudland; Wearily Onward I Ride, Watching The Water Alone. Not As Of Old, Like Homeric Achilles, ??De? Ya???, Joyous Knight-Errant Of God, Thirsting For Labour And Strife; No More On Magical Steed Borne Free Through The Regions Of Ether, But, Like The Hack Which I Ride, Selling My Sinew For Gold. Fruit-Bearing Autumn Is Gone; Let The Sad Quiet Winter Hang O'Er Me - What Were The Spring To A Soul Laden With Sorrow And Shame? Blossoms Would Fret Me With Beauty; My Heart Has No Time To Bepraise Them; Gray Rock, Bough, Surge, Cloud, Waken No Yearning Within. Sing Not, Thou Sky-Lark Above! Even Angels Pass Hushed By The Weeper. Scream On, Ye Sea-Fowl! My Heart Echoes Your Desolate Cry. Sweep The Dry Sand On, Thou Wild Wind, To Drift O'Er The Shell And The Sea- Weed; Sea-Weed And Shell, Like My Dreams, Swept Down The Pitiless Tide. Just Is The Wave Which Uptore Us; 'Tis Nature'S Own Law Which Condemns Us; Woe To The Weak Who, In Pride, Build On The Faith Of The Sand! Joy To The Oak Of The Mountain: He Trusts To The Might Of The Rock-Clefts; Deeply He Mines, And In Peace Feeds On The Wealth Of The Stone. Morte Sands, Devonshire, February 1849.