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I IT is a little isle amid bleak seas— | |
| An isolate realm of garden, circled round | |
| By importunity of stress and sound, | |
| Devoid of empery to master these. | |
| At most, the memory of its streams and bees, | 5 |
| Borne to the toiling mariner outward-bound, | |
| Recalls his soul to that delightful ground; | |
| But serves no beacon toward his destinies. | |
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| It is a refuge from the stormy days, | |
| Breathing the peace of a remoter world | 10 |
| Where beauty, like the musing dusk of even, | |
| Enfolds the spirit in its silver haze; | |
| While far away, with glittering banners furled, | |
| The west lights fade, and stars come out in heaven. | |
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II It is a sea-gate, trembling with the blast | 15 |
| Of powers that from the infinite sea-plain roll, | |
| A whelming tide. Upon the waiting soul | |
| As on a fronting rock, thunders the vast | |
| Groundswell; its spray bursts heavenward, and drives past | |
| In fume and sound articulate of the whole | 20 |
| Of ocean’s heart, else voiceless; on the shoal | |
| Silent; upon the headland clear at last. | |
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| From darkened sea-coasts without stars or sun, | |
| Like trumpet-voices in a holy war, | |
| Utter the heralds tidings of the deep. | 25 |
| And where men slumber, weary and undone, | |
| Visions shall come, incredible hopes from far,— | |
| And with high passion shatter the bonds of sleep. | |
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