How Low; Soft Wind Curves

How low; soft the wind curves
Solace to my diseased nerves.
Bearing quaint a perfumed breeze
Of all graves in troubled seas
Where the ships fade into twilight
White sails crimson-bathed in flight.
And on the shore I drown in the breath
Of low tides that speak of death.
There is an illness; a horrid fear
That a tomb waits for me here.
Though I know I shall survive
Henceforth I cannot be alive.
Creations of fever a throat that speaks
Of what a dying man alone still seeks.
Though I know that in this wave
None have prepared for me a grave
If Sanity is a germ I may keep
Part of me must then fall into the deep.
An hysterical laugh pervades
Where the final ship in veils of moonlight fades.
Lost! Another lost to the haze
While my spirit prays
To my little castle.
O! Tis washed away!
O! My little Kingdom Come of sand
Built stable by a trembling hand
Has washed away!
And no flowers can I throw
To waters where my towers go.
I only may watch my castle fall
Farewell every window; every wall
Each grain my labor brought
So proud a palace to this spot
All for naught.
Weep now to watch the tide
All traces of my palace hide.
Weep now to know each grain
Cannot rise to that beauty once again.
Weep to watch the final ship stray
To the depths of her final day.