This preview shows page 1. Sign up to view the full content.
Unformatted text preview: Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand--How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?...
View Full Document
- Fall '09