The huge white icebergs silently Voyage with us through this lonely sea, Noiseless and lifeless, yet they seem Like haunted islands in a dream Holding strange secrets that no one May know and live. In the bright sun They shine immeasurably fair, Bluer than bluest summer air, Or clear to the very heart with green Pure light, or amethyst as seen 'Mid sunset-clouds -- but now they shine With a cold gleam and have no sign Of loveliness. The ship swings on, Plunging 'mid surging seas whereon Few vessels ever sail, and as Slowly the long hours come and pass The late moon rises cold and white, And sends a flood of wintry light Along the sweeping waves and round Our black and sea-worn hull. A sound Far off dies while it grows -- some seal Long-drifted, frozen, waking but to feel Death's grip. And now the spectral isles Grow whiter, icier still, and seem More hollow, with a strange weird gleam As though some pale unreal fires Consumed them to their utmost spires Yet without flame or heat. And still The moon doth rise, and seems to fill Each berg anew with life: we sail Upon a strange sad sea, where pale And moonshine isles float all around, Voyaging onward without sound. |