Henry Alford

Sonnet LXXXV. On My Stone Inkstand.

Loud raged the tumult: Ocean far and near Seethed with wild anger, up the sloping sand Driving the shreds of foam; while, half in fear, We battled with the tempest, on the strand Scarcely upheld; or, clinging arm to arm, In wedge compact:--now would we venture brave Into the trench of the retreating wave; Now shoreward flee, with not all--feigned alarm. A challenge did my gentle sister speak: ``Yon pebble fetch, 'mongst those that furthest roll, Pierced on one face with an unsightly hole!'' Beneath a crested wave, that curled to break, I grasped the prize, not scathless; and since then That stone hath held the stuff that feeds my truant pen.