MUSSEL-PEARLS
These frail, exquisite things, these changelings from the deep,
My captives—at my will
They lie, so pure, so still
As trembling on the misty verge of sleep
See how the tender dream-light comes and goes
Lilac and silver, orange, palest rose
So delicate that did the sweet
Faint odors that arise
From iris or moonflower to our eyes
Take cloudy shape and fleet
They might resemble these. Yet on them lies
A shadow haunting, strange
Their likeness to the parent Sea,
Mother of Sorrows she,
Sister to Death and Change.
And scarce my heart can bear the aching stress
Of such remote and wistful loveliness.
—Nor would I yield them even to the grace
Of her whom I adore,
My Lady of the Blessed Face,
Were it not ancient lore
That when the sea-sprites win a mortal's love
They gain a soul thereby
In guerdon from above.
And when at last they lie
Those foam-white breasts of hers between
Something of her own spirit star-serene
Must with a new
More holy grace their elfin charm endue.
My captives—at my will
They lie, so pure, so still
As trembling on the misty verge of sleep
See how the tender dream-light comes and goes
Lilac and silver, orange, palest rose
So delicate that did the sweet
Faint odors that arise
From iris or moonflower to our eyes
Take cloudy shape and fleet
They might resemble these. Yet on them lies
A shadow haunting, strange
Their likeness to the parent Sea,
Mother of Sorrows she,
Sister to Death and Change.
And scarce my heart can bear the aching stress
Of such remote and wistful loveliness.
—Nor would I yield them even to the grace
Of her whom I adore,
My Lady of the Blessed Face,
Were it not ancient lore
That when the sea-sprites win a mortal's love
They gain a soul thereby
In guerdon from above.
And when at last they lie
Those foam-white breasts of hers between
Something of her own spirit star-serene
Must with a new
More holy grace their elfin charm endue.