I noticed there, upon your head,
a yellow-gold and shining thread
with kindred hairs, a thousand more,
like fine-worn sand upon that shore.
Yet it did not your skin turn pale
by compare, as sun to sail,
but lent an extra glow to bear
upon your cheeks unlikely fair.
A happy man I would have been
to take you from your roaming there,
and remove that foamy scene
to my own hard-weathered stair;
wild, still! but at my door,
wherein you might linger more.
Yet on that sand our closeness seemed,
though of a metre, wildly dreamed:
Love’s images are rare as false
as those imagined and obscure,
observed as though from far off shore,
and made of truth, or waves, or dulse.