In sea-cold Lyonesse, <br />When the Sabbath eve shafts down <br />On the roofs, walls, belfries <br />Of the foundered town, <br />The Nereids pluck their lyres <br />Where the green translucency beats, <br />And with motionless eyes at gaze <br />Make ministrely in the streets. <br /> <br />And the ocean water stirs <br />In salt-worn casement and porch. <br />Plies the blunt-nosed fish <br />With fire in his skull for torch. <br />And the ringing wires resound; <br />And the unearthly lovely weep, <br />In lament of the music they make <br />In the sullen courts of sleep: <br />Whose marble flowers bloom for aye: <br />And - lapped by the moon-guiled tide - <br />Mock their carver with heart of stone, <br />Caged in his stone-ribbed side.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunk-lyonesse/
