wreathe

You do not love Maria; Longaville

Did never sonnet for her sake compile,

Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart

His loving bosom to keep down his heart.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea / By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown / Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I unsealed the vial mystical,

I outpoured the liquid thing,

And while the smoke came wreathing out,

I stood unshuddering.

from so heauie sight his head did wreath, / Accusing fortune, and too cruell fate […].