Vita Nuova

I STOOD by the unvintageable sea

Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray

The long red fires of the dying day

Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;

And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:

'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain

And who can garner fruit or golden grain

From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'