The Sonneteer to the Sea-Shell

Fair Ocean shell, the poet's art is weak
To utter all thy rich variety!
How thou dost shame him when he tries to speak,
And tell his ear the rapture of his eye!
I cannot paint as very truth requires
The gold-green gleam that o'er thee breaks and roves,
Nor follow up with words thy flying fires,
Where'er the startled rose-light wakes and moves.
Ah! why perplex with all thy countless hues
The single-hearted sonnet? Fare thee well!
I give thee up to some gay lyric muse,
As fitful as thyself, thy tale to tell:
The quick-spent sonnet cannot do thee right
Nor in one flash deliver all thy light.