The Poet is the loneliest man that lives;
Ah me! God makes him so —
The sea hath its ebb and flow,
He sings his songs — but yet he only gives
In the waves of the words of his art
Only the ~ foam ~ of his heart.
Its sea rolls on forever, evermore,
Beautiful, vast, and deep;
Only his ~ shallowest ~ thoughts touch the shore
Of Speech; his ~ deepest ~ sleep.
The foam that crests the wave is pure and white;
The ~ foam ~ is not the ~ wave ~;
The wave is not the sea — ~ it rolls ~ forever on;
The winding shores will crave
A kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep;
~ Some come ~; some always ~ sleep ~.