LXII.

The wind rose free and singing: when for ever, O’er that sole spot of all the watery plain, I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour Down, where its treasure was, its glance to strain Then rose the reckless wind! Before our prow The white foam flash’d--ay, joyously, and thou Wert left with all the solitary main Around thee--and thy beauty in my heart, And thy meek, sorrowing love--oh! where could _that_ depart?