Gleams through Wind Clouds

What is more dreary than the cold, bright sun

Strewn in sharp splashes on the cold, gray deep,

When black storm-wings magnificently sweep

The shuddering waters, though their thunder stun

The timid ear, the veins heroic run,

Thrilled with a grandeur that long years shall keep

In glorious memory; but here they creep

With a dull misery as of death begun!

The sun burns icily and mocks the trust

His beams had kindled; through his mask of lead

His smile is treason, and the bitter gust

Is not more chilling, as it crisps the dead

And gray-green ocean’s melancholy face,

Marring with livid blots its old titanic grace!