Classic Poem

The morning mist hugs close the brackish shore,
And lies upon the still sea like a shroud.
O'er the wide waste no object seems endowed
With life or motion, save the languid oar
Of some lone fisher whose dejected sail
Droops idly, waiting for the lingering gale,
That still defers its coming day by day,
Till e'en the sea seems wretched with delay,
Having most human moods. It sleeps amain;
But when once more along these iron rocks
The loud, resistless North shall sound again
The hoarse storm-trumpets of the equinox,
It shall awake from out its weltering sleep,
With giant throes, and thunders of the deep!