White-caps

Merrily now the frolic western breeze
   Tosses in play old Triton's hoary locks,
   Who, mild, half-slumbering on his weed-hung rocks,
Pleased with her sport, and stretched in giant ease,
Watches with sidelong eye his Naiadès
   Break the green crystal with the measured shocks
   Of musical motion, on a field that mocks
Earth' s grassy meadows and the hum of bees.
Far off the white-caps glimmer, and anear
   Crumble and sparkle with an icy clash
As of a million jewels small and clear,
   Poured from an urn of porphyry, while the plash
Of the crisp wavelets lulls to sweeter rest
The old storm-wearied god, his gray beard on his breast.