On a Fragment of Shell

The waves yet forged their echo in my mind,

Driving from thence or thought or memory,

When in this muse a shell my sight did find—

A shard of some sea-crawler’s canopy

Ridged with white waves—and though these now are still,

And bled of life as bones tucked in the earth,

What furious crash, like this my ear doth fill,

Resounded from each layer at its birth?

Oh, there are sounds which are not made for man,

And yet are heard—nor may his reason quit

Its narrow sphere, which his own palm may span,

But to one room his restless search must fit.

Who is’t, then, hears the wave of cell on cell,

And sifts the calm which every wave doth quell?