Classic Poem

Wind and the whirling of white mists
Through the desolate night.
And there are voices on the wind:
Roaring horns, hoarse cries of battle!
The dark wind,
Endlessly whirling the white mists.

The pale mists
Wavering, unsteady, break before dawn:
They hurriedly vanish.
The low talk, the sombre yells of despair,
These are lost on the long wind:
But the jarring thunder of sea-chariots racing
Shoreward, yet holds my soul and keeps it from gaining sleep.