MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, <br />Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave! <br />Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; <br />Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, <br />And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: <br />In hearing of the ocean, and in sight <br />Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white. <br />If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, <br />I never could have made it half so sure, <br />As by the unblest kisses which upbraid <br />The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! <br />'Tis morning: but no morning can restore <br />What we have forfeited. I see no sin: <br />The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, <br />No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: <br />We are betray'd by what is false within.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-grave/
