On the sea

It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
That scaresly will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from where is sometimes fell,
When last the winds of heaven where unbound.

Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,
Feast upon the wideness of the sea -
Oh ye! Whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody -
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth and brood,
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired.

John Keats

See the Quenya version

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