Classic Poem

Es wütet der Sturm

The storm rages now
And whips the waves,
And the waters, boiling and furious,
Tower into a moving waste
Of white and flowing mountains.
And the ship climbs them
Sharply, painfully;
And suddenly plunges down,
Into a black and yawning chasm of flood.
O Sea!
Mother of Venus, born of your quickening foam,
Grandmother of Love! Help me!
Already, light of wing, and smelling for corpses,
The white and ghostly sea-mew hovers
And whets its bill on the mast-head,
And lusts to feed on my heart
Which rings with the praise of thy daughter;
The heart that thy grandson, the little scamp,
Has taken for plaything.

Fruitless my prayers and entreaties!
My cry dies in the rushing storm,
In the alarum of the wind.
It roars and rattles and whistles and wails —
A madhouse of sounds!
And between times I can hear,
Far off but distinctly,
Magical harp-tones,
Passionate singing,
Soul-melting and soul-tearing —
And I know the voice . . .

Far on the rocky coast of Scotland
Where an old, gray castle
Juts into the boiling sea;
There, at a high-arched window,
A woman stands, lovely and sick at heart,
Delicate-featured and marble-pale.
And she plays on the harp and sings;
And the storm tosses her long hair,
And carries her dark song
Over the wide and darkening sea.