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...FAREWELL TO FARGO: SELLING THE HOUSE by KAREN SWENSON THE WINE OF NIGHT by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE TASK: BOOK 4. THE WINTER EVENING by WILLIAM COWPER BEAUTIFUL MEALS by THOMAS STURGE MOORE THE FIELD MOUSE by WILLIAM SHARP ENGLAND IN 1819 by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY REMINISCENCE by DOROTHY ALLISON CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |