The Mariner

The violet scent is sacred
Like dreams of angels bright;
The hawthorn smells of passion
Told in a moonless night.

But the smell is in my nostrils,
Through blossoms red or gold,
Of my own green flower unfading,
A bitter smell and bold.

The lily smells of pardon,
The rose of mirth; but mine
Smells shrewd of death and honour,
And the doom of Adam's line.

The heavy scent of wine-shops
Floats as I pass them by,
But never a cup I quaff from,
And never a house have I.

Till dropped down forty fathoms,
I lie eternally;
And drink from God's own goblet
The green wine of the sea.