“ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me, what is that far away,—
There, where over the isle of sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst...
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In the groined alcoves of an ancient tower |
Translated by Charles Timothy Brooks WHEN the worthy Widow Tibbets |
“ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand! |
Mon petit fils, qui n'as encor rien vu, |
Au pied d'un crucifix, une tête de mort, |
Cependant cet oiseau qui prône les merveilles, |
Amour m'a fait un second Prométhée |
Each Second is the last |
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