80 
THE STORM 
 
Still pale a rose reflection lingers, in pure soft blue ; 
Even above the tempest, where a lonely avenue 
Leads from the wan moon’s image, shadowy in the air, 
Waning, half hidden from the sun—and yet her soul is there. 
 
So stand I looking ever down to the rolling sea, 
Breast-heaves of a sleeping mother, spouse of Eternity : 
The dark deep ocean mother, that another hath reviled, 
Calling her bitter and barren—and am I not her child ? 
 
O mother sea, O beautiful, more excellent than earth, 
How is thy travail understood, except thou give me 
birth ? 
O waves of death, O saltness, O sorrow manifold ! 
I see beneath thy darkness azure ; deeper still, the heart of 
gold. 
 
Am I not true, O mother, who hast held the lives of men 
Sucked down to thy swart bosom—O render not again ! 
Keep thou our life and mix it with thine eternal sleep : 
Rest, let us rest from passion there, deep !  O how deep ! 
 
Deep calleth unto deep, Amen !  hast thou no passion, 
thou ? 
Even now the white flames kindle on thy universal brow. 
I hear white serpents hiss and wild black dragons roll ; 
And the storm of love is on thee—ah !  shall it touch thy soul ?