120 THE HALL OF SHELLS. 
BARNACLES. 
My soul is sailing through the sea, 
But the Past is heavy and hindereth me. 
The Past hath crusted, cumbrous shells 
That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells. 
About my soul 
The huge waves wash, the high waves roll, 
Hach barnacle clingeth and worketh dole 
And hindereth me from sailing ! 
Old Past let go and drop i’ the sea 
Till fathomless waters cover thee ! 
For I am living, but thou art dead ; 
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead 
The Day to find. 
Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind, 
I need must hurry with the wind 
And trim me best for sailing. 
The face of the singer was toward the sea, 
and she did not know as she might if she had 
looked into the doctor’s eyes that he had ceased 
to meditate upon science. 
