Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, br Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave! br Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; br Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, br And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: br In hearing of the ocean, and in sight br Of those ribbed wind-streaks running into white. br If I the death of Love had deeply planned, br I never could have made it half so sure, br As by the unblest kisses which upbraid br The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! br 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore br What we have forfeited. I see no sin: br The wrong is mixed. In tragic life, God wot, br No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: br We are betrayed by what is false within.