On the desolate border between the living land
And land lying entombed under the sea,
The littered and soaking sand
Strewn with wrecked wood and clotted moss
Which the waves continually toss,
Toss, and then regather into the foam and swell,
I saw, shapely and thin, with delicate gloss
And strangely spiraled, a wan shell.
A shell delicate and turned without fault,
Pale, icy, thin as despair,
Washed in the dead bitterness of salt
It was born in the sea,
Torn from the sea into the air.
Some other may lift it from the sand;
I do not dare. Never has my hot hand
Held any substance so desolate and so rare.