| You are not wrong, who deem, that my days have been a dream;
|
| Yet if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day
|
| In a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?
|
| All I ever had just fades away, the only memory left, is of our special day
|
| I stand amid the roar
|
| 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!
|
| My dear! |
| Can I not grasp
|
| Them with a tighter clasp?
|
| My dear! |
| Can I not save
|
| One from the pitiless waves?
|
| But the only one I really need to save
|
| While struggling with the ruthless waves
|
| From drowning in these endless shores
|
| Is this one important grain of yours |