Here on the dark rocks Of the land's verge, I hear the wind's shout, The murmer of surge. Like a rabble afar, Its applauding cries, Millions in number, Confusedly rise. So the myriad-voiced Cold ancient one Sends up his song Of praise to the sun. The winds above him Stride and are free. They pry in the rocks, Where wallows the sea: Till into dark clefts They suddenly fall, And he seizes them swiftly: While, over all, Smilingly white Over deep-blue shade, The far snow-peak Nods a drowsy head. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RELIGION by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR A NET TO SNARE THE MOONLIGHT by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE by AMELIA OPIE SOLITUDE by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE by THOMAS WYATT THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN; A SONG by JOANNA BAILLIE |