She’s moody, like the swell from which she rose,
All her sharp edges might just slit your throat
You’ll drown and you might perish like all those,
Who find their verses scattered, and afloat
The waves, which swash them to and fro the shore;
She drank them into her own hollow shells.
Her shallow whispers echo, you abhor
The fathomless, in which your poem dwells.

And yet when lady sea is at her peak,
Then from her curvy caves, your poetry will speak.