And as I listened its cold teeth seethed With voices of that ambiguous sea Old Böcklin missed, who held a shell To hear the sea he could not hear. What the seashell spoke to his inner ear He knew, but no peasants know. My father died, and when he died He willed his books and shell away. The books burned up, sea took the shell, But I, I keep the voices he Set in my ear, and in my eye
