The Bubble of the Silver-Springing Waves

The bubble of the silver-springing waves, Castalian music, and that flattering sound, Low rustling of the loved Apollian leaves, With which my youthful hair was to be crowned, Grow dimmer in my ears; white Beauty grieves Over her votary, less frequent found; And not untouched by storms, my life-boat heaves Through the splashed ocean-waters, outward-bound. And as the leaning mariner, his hand Clasped on his ear, strives trembling to reclaim Some loved lost echo from the fleeting strand, So lean I back to the poetic land; And in my heart a sound, a voice, a name Hangs, as above the lamp hangs the expiring flame.