106 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CLYTIE 
 
I STRAIN mine eyes across the surge ;  the spindrift cuts me 
like a whip ;   
The wet wind wails a wolfish dirge for its slain paramour 
the ship. 
 
The ship, the ship that brings me home more than all 
hoarded galleons 
Brought through that sunset-blooded foam, with hulls of 
teak and beaks of bronze !   
 
More than all store of gold or spice, ivory, slaves or sandal-
wood 
Art thou, O marvel beyond price, O bee-hive of beatitude !   
 
Is not each cell that builds thee up a well of honey-scented 
sips ?   
Is not thy soul one fragrant cup of nectar at my thirsty 
lips ?   
 
Thou bearest in thine hollow staff the primal fire, the 
flower’s fume, 
Quintessence—now may Zeus engraff its pollen in my 
wintry womb !