The storm
M. White
The sea is tossing, moaning
As it rises, trembles, crashes;
To madness scourged by the wind
That fiercely and restlessly lashes.
From darken'd height, with wildest might,
The rain in floods is falling;
As tho' the night would drown the sea
In agony appalling.
The gulls are gathering round the mast,
In hoarse tones shrilly crying,
Too surely trouble will follow fast,
Their hapless prophesying.