Weighed down, in utter helplessness it lies,
    Whose buoyant youth was lighter than the
Each tide the robber-storms unseal its grave,
And of its bones the sea makes merchandise.
Led by the Moon, sea-waters sympathize,—
(E’en hands that snatch, some sense of pity have),
Deeper in sand each day, the boon they crave—
Its sorrows sink from out the seaman’s eyes.
So may it be when storms my life shall strand
On treacherous shoal or disappointment’s reef!
May waves that wrecked reach out a pitying hand
To gulf my sorrow, and to hide my grief,
And the same wind that drove my hull to land
Break up my being with a last relief.

(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 115)