Atlantis (Smith)

Above its domes the gulfs accumulate. Far up, the sea-gales blare their bitter screed: But here the buried waters take no heed— Deaf, and with welded lips pressed down by weight Of the upper ocean. Dim, interminate, In cities over-webbed with somber weed, Where galleons crumble and the krakens breed, The slow tide coils through sunken court and gate.

From out the ocean's phosphor-starry dome, A ghostly light is dubitably shed On altars of a goddess garlanded With blossoms of some weird and hueless vine; And, wingéd, fleet, through skies beneath the foam, Like silent birds the sea-things dart and shine.