Pamela

The long cold waves of the ocean beat forever in the sand,
Swaying the salt-laden acrid air with their falling sound.
Tracing fine foam path patterns on the yielding ground,
Then sliding soft down the sloping shore of the land
Lying impassive, unmored, while the boneless hand
Of the maters writes [unclear: eternal] repetition on the groined
Coasts: ceasely striring to impress its form where fluid joined
Solid: cease [unclear: fntih] struggle, success banned
By the nature af the task. So the sterile thought [unclear: waves] of my mind
Beat on the edge of consciousness, and lessly [unclear: recalling]
[unclear: Your laway-shaded] hair and heart, shaped [unclear: strene] face.
These and a thousand other flimsy aching pictures bind
In rain my being to you; the constant series galling
My brain, and I wake frightened and alone in some crourded place.

—Aler Bryan.