Classic Poem

The sun a beacon seems with fixed, white light.
From Raz far as Penmarch the coast's in fume,
And only wind-blown gulls with ruffled plume
Through the mad tempest whirl in aimless flight.

With ceaseless roll and fierce, impetuous might
The glaucous waves, beneath their mane of spume
Dispersing clouds of mist to thunderous boom,
The distant, streaming reefs with plumes bedight.

And so the billows of my thought have course—
Spent hopes and dreams, regrets for wasted force,
With nothing left but memory mocking me.

Ocean has spoken in fraternal strain,
For that same clamor which impels the sea
Mounts to the Gods from man, eternal, vain.