The tasks are done and the tears are shed. Yesterdays errors let yesterday cover; Yesterdays wounds, which smarted and bled, Are healed with the healing that night has shed.
The hollow sea-shell, which for years hath stood On dusty shelves, when held against the ear Proclaims its stormy parent, and we hear The faint, far murmur of the breaking flood. We hear the sea.1 The Sea? It is the blood In our own veins, impetuous and near.
Why should I stay? Nor seed nor fruit have I, But, sprung at once to beautys perfect round, Nor loss nor gain nor change in me is found, A life-complete in death-complete to die.
The Bubble.
Note 1. See Dante Gabriel Rossetti, page 769, and Charles Henry Webb. page 793. [back]