THE panting north wind staggers A-clutch with the sullen tide, And the blast with a hundred daggers Is piercing the rower's side. They say he was mad to venture, They moan on the icy shore; But pleading, or fear, or censure Shall carry him back no more. For what is the cold wave's seething, Or the rush of the white-speared storm, To the thought of the sweet South, breathing From lips that are pure and warm; Or the thrust of the angry billow To the rise of her tranquil breast That to-night shall be his pillow Where, welcome, he may rest? |