carys davies porcelain

In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity
and the pride of life that planned her, stilly couches she

Steel chambers, late the pyres
of her salamandrine fires
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
<..>
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: what does this vaingloriousness down here?

From The Convergence of the Twain, Thomas Hardy