Page:Maud, and other poems.djvu/98

78 Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand!

Breton, not Briton; here Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast Of ancient fable and fear— Plagued with a flitting to and fro, A disease, a hard mechanic ghost That never came from on high Nor ever arose from below, But only moves with the moving eye, Flying along the land and the main— Why should it look like Maud? Am I to be overawed By what I cannot but know Is a juggle born of the brain?