In sea-cold Lyonesse,
When the Sabbath eve shafts
On the roofs, walls,
Of the foundered town,
The Nereids pluck their
Where the green translucency beats,
And with motionless eyes at
Make ministrely in the streets.
And the ocean water
In salt-worn casement and porch.
Plies the blunt-nosed
With fire in his skull for torch.
And the ringing wires resound;
And the unearthly lovely weep,
In lament of the music they
In the sullen courts of sleep:
Whose marble flowers bloom for aye:
And - lapped by the moon-guiled tide -Mock their carver with heart of stone,
Caged in his stone-ribbed side.
