Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men's bones he saw bequeath
An embassy. Their numbers as he watched,
Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.
And wrecks passed without sound of bells,
The calyx of death's bounty giving back
A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph,
The portent wound in corridors of shells.
Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil,
Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled,
In these lines, one feels the severity of the Sublime (painted as the sea), especially to those who dare to flirt with it. Like  Melville’s  Moby-Dick , the Sublime devours, dehumanizes, and denounces one’s being. Alas, one is left a part of the nameless numbers that beat on the dusty shore, forever to be obscured.
At Melvilles Tomb