In sea-cold Lyonesse, When the Sabbath eve shafts down On the roofs, walls, belfries Of the foundered town, The Nereids pluck their lyres Where the green translucency beats, And with motionless eyes at gaze Make ministrely in the streets. And the ocean water stirs In salt-worn casement and porch. Plies the blunt-nosed fish With fire in his skull for torch. And the ringing wires resound; And the unearthly lovely weep, In lament of the music they make In the sullen courts of sleep: Whose marble flowers bloom for aye: And - lapped by the moon-guiled tide - Mock their carver with heart of stone, Caged in his stone-ribbed side.