Storm

The storm rages now

And whips the waves,

And the waters, boiling and furious,

Tower into a moving waste

Of white and flowing mountains.

And the ship climbs them

Sharply, painfully;

And suddenly plunges down,

Into a black and yawning chasm of flood.

O Sea!

Mother of Venus, born of your quickening foam,

Grandmother of Love! Help me!

Already, light of wing, and smelling for corpses,

The white and ghostly sea-mew hovers

And whets its bill on the mast-head,

And lusts to feed on my heart

Which rings with the praise of thy daughter;

The heart that thy grandson, the little scamp,

Has taken for a plaything.

Fruitless my prayers and entreaties.

My cry dies in the rushing storm,

In the alarum of the wind.

It roars and rattles and whistles and wails --

A madhouse of sounds!

And between times I can hear, far off but distinctly,

Magical harp-tones,

Passionate singing,

Soul-melting and soul-tearing--

And I know the voice...

Far on the rocky coast of Scotland

Where an old gray castle

Juts into the boiling sea;

There, at a high-arched window,

A woman stands, lovely and sick at heart,

Delicate-featured and marble-pale.

And she plays on the harp and sings;

And the storm tosses her long hair,

And she carries her dark song

Over the wide and darkening sea.