Classic Poem

8. Storm.
How rages the storm!
How he scourges the deep!
And, foaming with rage, it raves and the waves
Pile themselves up, and the white water-mountains
Heave as with life!

And the good ship climbs up them,
Straining and toiling,
Then plunges down madly
In the dark gaping chasm of billows.

O Sea!
Mother of Beauty, the foam-sprung goddess,
Grandam of Love, have pity on me!
For the white spectral sea-mew flutters
With a wail as of spirits departed,
And sharpens her bill on the yard-arm,
And greedily gapes for the heart
Which is filled with the praise of thy daughter,
The heart which thy grandchild, the tiny rogue,
Takes for his toy.

In vain are entreaties and tears!
My cries die away on the bellowing storm,
In the wind's battle-roar,
And it whistles and screams, and rattles and howls,
Like a Bedlam of noises.
Yet amidst all I hear clearly
Tones of entrancing harps,
Song that is wild with yearning,
Melting the soul and racking the soul,
And the voice is one that I know.

On the iron-bound coast of Scotland
Afar, where the grey old castle rises,
By the tumultuous sea,
There at the high-vaulted window
Standeth a woman, suffering and lovely,
Tender, translucent, and marble pale.
And she touches the harp and sings,
And the wind whirls through her streaming tresses,
And bears her gloomy song
Over the wide, storm-ridden sea.