Sonnets LXXXV: On My Stone Inkstand

Loud raged the tumult: Ocean far and near
Seethed with wild anger, up the sloping sand
Driving the shreds of foam; while, half in fear,
We battled with the tempest, on the strand
Scarcely upheld; or, clinging arm to arm,
In wedge compact: — now would we venture brave
Into the trench of the retreating wave;
Now shoreward flee, with not all-feigned alarm.
A challenge did my gentle sister speak:
'Yon pebble fetch, 'mongst those that furthest roll,
Pierced on one face with an unsightly hole!'
Beneath a crested wave, that curled to break,
I grasped the prize, not scathless; and since then
That stone hath held the stuff that feeds my truant pen.