And again
I heard over the waves
the little voice,
hissing melodious of the liquid.
And sands directed to me,
edging near as privately for me.
Creeping to my feet.
Rustling at my feet.
Creeping thence
steadily up to my ears
and laving me
softly all over
That delicious word
which the sea whisper'd me
Death, death, death, death, death
Like some old crone
rocking the cradle
Swathed in sweet garments,
bending aside,
and which I do not forget.
