Seaconnet at Midnight

Up the black rooks the inky waters fling 
     Their ponderous coils, a slow, majestic weight, 
     Strong without rage, without convulsion great, 
Like the calm breathing of some giant thing 
Lifting a continent on the measured swing 
     Of his broad bosom. The dim cliffs dilate 
     In gloomy grandeur, and plunge down to sate 
Their cavemed jaws in this wide weltering,
As if they too were riding, like the ships,
     Fixed to their moorings only! Black alike 
The sea that climbs and sullen crag that dips, — 
     Save where they meet and crumble more than strike; 
There pallid gleams illume their foaming lips,
Making the darkness wan as moonlight in eclipse!