Legende (Hart Crane)

The tossing lonliness of many nights
Rounds off my memory of her.
Like a shell surrendered to evening sands,
Yet called adrift again at every dawn,
She has become a pathos, --
Waif of the tides.
The sand and sea have had their way,
And moons of spring and autumn, --
All, save I.
And even my vision will be erased
As a cameo the waves claim again.