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!
Part of Gleams through Wind Clouds
