To A Forgotten Triton

Triumphant wielder of the wreathèd horns, Breeder and brewer of small midland storms, Lord of a land-locked sea; Plunged in this grey tumultuous brine, What fears, what thoughts, we ask, were thine, What dreams would visit thee?

A minnow down some wild mill-race, A leaf, gale-tossed from place to place, Might fitly image thee; Some mild seer of the ancient world, Into our vexed thought-maelstrom hurled, Would hear this deafening sea.