120 THE HALL OP 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, 

 Each 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. 



