A Mussel Shell
WHY art thou colored like the evening sky
Sorrowing for sunset? Lovely dost thou lie,
Bared by the washing of the eager brine,
At the snow’s motionless and wind-carved line.
Cold stretch the snows, cold throng the waves, the wind
Stings sharp, —and icy fire, a touch unkind, —
And sighs as if with passion of regret,
The while I mark thy tints of violet.
O beauty strange! O shape of perfect grace,
Whereon the lovely waves of color trace
The history of the years that passed thee by,
And touched thee with the pathos of the sky!
The sea shall crush thee; yea, the ponderous wave
Up the loose beach shall grind, and scoop thy grave,
Thou thought of God! What more than thou am I?
Both transient as the sad wind’s passing sigh.
