| There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend, |
| And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming, |
| Went
walking with slow steps along the gleaming |
| And humming sands, where windy surges wend: |
| And he
called loudly to the stars to bend |
| From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they |
| Among themselves
laugh on and sing alway: |
| And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend |
| Cried out, Dim sea, hear
my most piteous story! |
| The sea swept on and cried her old cry still, |
| Rolling along in dreams from hill to
hill. |
| He fled the persecution of her glory |
| And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping, |
| Cried all his story to the
dewdrops glistening. |
| But naught they heard, for they are always listening, |
| The dewdrops, for the sound
of their own dropping. |
| And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend |
| Sought once again the shore,
and found a shell, |
| And thought, I will my heavy story tell |
| Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send |
| Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart; |
| And my own tale again for me shall sing, |
| And my own
whispering words be comforting, |
| And lo! my ancient burden may depart. |
| Then he sang softly nigh the
pearly rim; |
| But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone |
| Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan |
| Among
her wildering whirls, forgetting him. |
