The riotous waves of sea, with what uproar,
With passions what, with what tumultuous surge,
They dash against the passive shores and soar,
In smoke and foam, so higher in their urge.
The cosy clouds, to what fallible heights,
With what expectant hopes, they waft, they swell,
To puffed up skies, so stately in their flights,
And heavy with many a pearly jewel.
Oh! For the not-responding skies, they weep,
They weep and moan and cry their life away;
Oh! For the not-requiting shores, they creep,
They creep, rippling retreat around dismay.
A weeping cloud, a rippling wave, with me,
A secret have, when I recede from thee.
A sonnet written in 1965 summer after the Masters exam.