Sonnet Iii:

III As a lorn sailor clinging to the wreck, On which he starved through many a doleful day, Sees o'er the waves, as evening turns to grey, The far horizon bear one glittering speck, Hope fires his heart; with eager, outstretched neck, He scans the sail; she bears across his way; A stone-cast off he marks her trim array, Hears merry laughter pealing from her deck. His brandished arms, his tears, his desperate cry Are vain, unmarked. As with a blow, his flame Of hope is quenched; the sail has passed him by. So, nigh my darkly drifting heart, you came In all your beauty. Was I mad, that I Hoped to be marked? I grieve, I cannot blame.