— Where should this music be? i’ th’ air, or th’ earth?
It sounds no more; – and sure, it waits upon
Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father’s wrack,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury, and my passion.
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it. –
Or it hath drawn me rather, – but ’tis gone.
No, it begins again.
— Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
[Burden:] ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, – ding-dong, bell.