Seashell Poem by M. W. Taylor

The hollow seashell, which for years has stood
on dusty shelves, when held against the ear
proclaims its stormy parent and we hear
the faint murmur of the breaking flood.

We hear the sea. The sea! It is the blood
in our own veins, impetuous and near.
Pulses keeping pace with hope and fear.
and with a heart's every shifting mood.

Lo, in my ear I hear, as from a seashell
the murmur of a world beyond the grave.
Distinct...distinct... though faint and far it be.

Fooled. This echo is a cheat as well -
the hum of earthly instinct; we crave
a world as unreal as the shell-heard sea.