To keep through life the posture of the grave, While others walk and run and dance and leap. - Eugene Lee-Hamilton

Fourteen small broidered berries on the hern
Of Circe's mantle, each of magic gold;
Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that rolled
Into the sea, for pearls to come to them;
Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem
With which Medea human fate foretold
Fourteen small drops, which Fautus, growing old,
Craved of the Fiend, to water Life's stem

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. The Sea? It is the blood
In our own veins, impetuous and near.