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Dante Gabriel Rossetti - At Issue
Work rating: Low

THAT voice I hear,—how heard I cannot tell,— 
Although my home is this, seems from my home: 
There… still it trails along and murmurs “Come”; 
Like the slow death of sound within a bell, 
Or like the humming whine in some pink shell 
Wet with the brittle beadage of the foam 
Which bird—eyed damsels stoop for when they roam 
By the old sea. Were`t not exceeding well 
To shake my soul out of this tiresome life 
For a call any—whence and any—whither? 
That voice knows all the life I have or had, 
And mocks me not,—it`s whisper is too sad. 
Even to attain calm sorrow lures me thither, 
Since here this search for joy wearies like strife.
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