Chapter 13 No.13

I set the trumpet to my lips and blow.

The night is broken westward; the wide sea

That makes immortal motion to and fro

From world's end unto world's end, and shall be

When nought now grafted of men's hands shall grow

And as the weed in last year's waves are we

Or spray the sea-wind shook a year ago

From its sharp tresses down

            
            

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