H.D. describes a sea lily growing on a rough shore, where wind, sand, and spray have slashed its stem, torn its bark, and cut its petals. The damage is rendered almost tenderly: myrtle-bark flecks off, scales are dashed away, and sand furrows the petals like flint against bright stone. The speaker notes that a flower with such a large head might have been offered on temple steps, but this one is instead exposed and broken by the wind.
Yet the mood is not defeated. The speaker feels admiration, even awe, at the lily’s endurance. However much the whole wind slashes at it and the froth hisses to cover it, the plant is still lifted up. It leaves a bracing, defiant impression—beauty not protected from harshness but strengthened by surviving it.