Once more, the wind-- And thou dost go on an old familiar way In tragic fashion, As a corsair, pursuing his prey With the lust of passion, Falls like a burst of hail On an autumn yield, Till every reach and gulf and bay Is left with the stubble of life and sail, With the face of the waters like unto the face of the field.
Now like a fugitive, who, on the desert sand, A moment broods upon the life he spilt. And, with averted gaze, Circling the dusky ruin of his hand, Surveys The Arab measure of his guilt Before a Presence standing there that calls His name; in cloud and shadow and in whirlwind reads The inviolate scripture of the fates; Then full across the desert speeds, Until he falls, Caught by the Avenger near the City Gates;-- So underneath the heavens' lighted scroll, Ablaze with cryptic tokens of the slain, Headlong to shore thy spiral waters roll Swept by the besom of the winds; by rain And thunder driven in flight Along the galleries of the night, Until upon the surge-line locked in strife With reef and breaker thou art shattered, soon In fang and sinew to be strewn Around the cliffs that guard the ports of life.
O wild, tumultuous sea! Thy waters mock our liturgy, For thou dost take the threads of faith apart. Wherewith the cables of our life are spun, Strand upon strand unravelling;--thou dost hear, Recited from a tide-wet shore, Our creeds. Each hope and fear Filtered from life's confessions--one by one, Out of the dumb confusions of the heart, Are spread before thy sight--thou Arch-Inquisitor! How in a ruthless moment dost thou strip The veilings from our eyes, and bid us cast Our glances on a labyrinthine past, Stirred by a flash that on a wave's white lip Gleams for an instant, or by some dark sign Within thy fearful hollows where night flings Her crape of shadow on a tossing line Of jetsam, will our years turn back, To gather from a weed-grown track A bitter tale of dimmed rememberings.
As to its end the tempest drags Its way, thou art re-born To strength of body and beauty of face; And thou dost cover with a tranquil grace Those whom the winds had buffeted, And laid upon the waters--dead. In darkness dost thou cover them, As some white-winged mother of the crags, That daily gathering food From sea-weed and from tide-wash, brings, At fall of night, to her rock-nurtured brood The drowsy silence of her wings.