The rude sea grew civil at her song,And certain stars shot madly from their spheresTo hear the sea-maid's music.

The rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid's music.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Here is my journey's end, here is my butt; And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.

Nimble thought can jump both sea and land