A dark sail,
Like a wild-goose wing,
Where the sunset was.
The moon soon will silver its sinewy flight
Thro the night watches,
And the far flight
Of those immortal migrants,
The ever-returning stars.
This poem is in the public domain.
A gleaming glassy ocean
Under a sky of grey;
A tide that dreams of motion,
Or moves, as the dead may;
A bird that dips and wavers
Over lone waters round,
Then with a cry that quavers
Is gone—a spectral sound.
Under the sea, which is their sky, they rise
To watery altitudes as vast as those
Of far Himalayan peaks impent in snows
And veils of cloud and sacred deep repose.
Under the sea, their flowing firmament,
More dark than any ray of sun can pierce,
The earthquake thrust them up with mighty tierce
See your God in the jelly-fish, Sucking salty food. See Him drift in the gulf-weed, In shark-bellies brood. See Him feed with the gull there, In a grey ship's wake. Feel Him afresh In your own hot flesh When into lust you break. Hear His wrath in the hurricane, Hushing a hundred lives. Hist His heave in the earthquake, In volcano hives. Hark His stride in the plague-wind, Over a sterile shore: Down in a mine Behold what wine Of coal-damp He will pour. Aye, and there in the ribaldry Of a night-wench's song Hear Him—or on a child's lips Cursing a slum-mate's wrong.