The Shell

What has the sea swept up?

A Viking oar, long mouldered in the peace

Of grey oblivion? Some dim-burning bowl

Of unmixed gold, from far-off island feasts?

Ropes of old pearls? Masses of ambergris?

Something of elfdom from the ghastly isles

Where white-hot rocks pierce through the flying spindrift?

Or a pale sea-queen, close wound in a net of spells?

Nothing of these. Nothing of antique splendours

That have a weariness about their names:

But--fresh and new, in frail transparency,

Pink as a baby's nail, silky and veined

As a flower petal--this casket of the sea,

One shell.