The Shell

In what cold seas, under what winters' reign,
—Who knows, or can know, nacreous, fragile Shell!—
Hast thou mid current, wave and tidal swell,
In shallows and abysses restless lain?

To-day, beneath the sky, far from the main,
Thou hast in golden sands thy bed made well;
But vain thy hope, for still within thy cell
Despairing sounds great ocean's mournful strain.

My soul a prison all sonorous lies,
Where, as of old, complaining tears and sighs
With sad refrain make clamor as in thee;

So from the heart-depths She alone can fill,
Dull, slow, unfeeling, yet eternal still,
The far, tumultuous murmur moans in me.