To Melpomene

Come then in robe of darkest blue
And face of pale and sickly hue–
Who Moon-like guid’st the liquid swell
Of sounds that float upon the shell
At whose soft touch whate’er is mute
Talks ‘with a voice like Pity’s Lute
–Like what the Sailor’s Widow hears
At Night dull-tingling in her ears
While touched by the moon-raised Surge
The wild rocks round her sing a wondrous Dirge,
That floats around thy poet’s shell of bluest night
Which liquid words tender light
[ ] have a sound themselves and give a sound cetera desunt