Oracles

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 ?