Let the wild, thronging train of waves in
Their misted procession of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul.
Is this then dawn as thick beads of clouds
Cluster above the agate stoned shore.
On white shoulders of sand, deep cupped
The night-wind routs through the portico of
Morn, all drenched in dew.
Come forth sun, to the ivy-wreathed horizon,
Of thy cup, the bright glancing vines light
Furrows into the sea; here and there, harnessed
Into tides; the clay-laden lonely streams-
Sandbars at the prow, guides them in long robes
Of ivory; long-heaving, violent sea;
Like a loaded boat, it swings groaning.
In groping blindness comes a storm, the maddening
Swells. Scorned white hairs of lightning jutting,
Crawling like shadows. Oh, where are the echoing
Oars of seamen passing through the stems of
Darkness, startled in the unknown sea.
Through the rough planked ghostly images,
Up the sea valley-head, comes the dappled
Sunset, all drenched in wet. The sky all silent.
On horizon’s altar, this bowl. I drank and sunk
Down sleeping. More soft; aye, but to dream.