Ah—it's the skeleton of a lady's sunshade,
        Here at my feet in the hard rock's chink,
        Merely a naked sheaf of wires! -
        Twenty years have gone with their livers and diers
        Since it was silked in its white or pink.

Noonshine riddles the ribs of the sunshade,
        No more a screen from the weakest ray;
        Nothing to tell us the hue of its dyes,
        Nothing but rusty bones as it lies
        In its coffin of stone, unseen till to-day.

Where is the woman who carried that sun-shade
        Up and down this seaside place? -
        Little thumb standing against its stem,
        Thoughts perhaps bent on a love-stratagem,
        Softening yet more the already soft face!

Is the fair woman who carried that sunshade
        A skeleton just as her property is,
        Laid in the chink that none may scan?
        And does she regret—if regret dust can -
        The vain things thought when she flourished this?

SWANAGE CLIFFS.