Sunk Lyonesse

In sea-cold Lyonesse,
    When the Sabbath eve shafts down
On the roofs, walls, belfries
    Of the foundered town,
The Nereids pluck their lyres
    Where the green translucency beats,
And with motionless eyes at gaze
    Make minstrelsy in the streets.

The ocean water stirs
    In salt-worn casemate and porch
Plies the blunt-snouted fish
    With fire in his skull for torch.
And the ringing wires resound;
    And the unearthly lovely weep,
In lament of the music they make
    In the sullen courts of sleep.

Whose marble flowers bloom for aye,
    And - lapped by the moon-guiled tide -
Mock their carver with heart of stone,
    Caged in his stone-ribbed side.