The Mariner

The violet scent is sacred Like dreams of angels bright; The hawthorn smells of passion Told in a moonless night.
    But the smell is in my nostrils, Through blossoms red or gold, Of my own green flower unfading, A bitter smell and bold.
    The lily smells of pardon, The rose of mirth; but mine Smells shrewd of death and honour, And the doom of Adam's line.
    The heavy scent of wine-shops Floats as I pass them by, But never a cup I quaff from, And never a house have I.
    Till dropped down forty fathoms, I lie eternally; And drink from God's own goblet The green wine of the sea.