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Modern Love XLIII: Mark Where the Pressing Wind

by
 Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, 
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave! 
Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; 
Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, 
And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: 
In hearing of the ocean, and in sight 
Of those ribbed wind-streaks running into white.
If I the death of Love had deeply planned, I never could have made it half so sure, As by the unblest kisses which upbraid The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore What we have forfeited.
I see no sin: The wrong is mixed.
In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.

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