VIII.

Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh, The sea has only just o’er-whispered! Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water’s lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.

Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone

Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell’s womb What time, with ardors manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold.

Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify,--refine to proof *2* The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof.