SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth ; In the tropic clime of youth; From the strong will, and the endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, Household words, no more depart. THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters For, like strains of martial music, And to-night I long for rest. |