The fog is white sleep that gropes in from the sea With sensitive, sinuous fingers and we Are muffled with sleep we can see. It gives us a dream with our eyes open wide, With houses that waver, and men at our side Who tower and dwindle and glide. These are soft slurs of light, and gaunt, claw-fingered trees, And choked sounds from nowhere that puzzle and tease, And a slow, fumbling, visible breeze. There are flashes of vision that cloud, like a glass With a close breath upon it; and curtains that pass And leave dream-stuff a-wink on the grass. From above, it is sea-spirit, writhing about Like a torment of sleep in a nightmare of doubt, With black serpents that weave in and out. It is cool, like a ghost; and it idles along Like some musical ghost who is humming a song In a hot, fretful, garrulous throng. The fog is a yawn from a sleepy old sea, With a wandering tune in a lullaby key From warm wind with a wave on its knee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NATHAN HALE [SEPTEMBER 22, 1776] by FRANCIS MILES FINCH AFTER AUGHRIM by ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM by ROBERT SOUTHEY MY PRAYER by HENRY DAVID THOREAU SONGS OF LABOR: DEDICATION by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AN ARMOURY by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE |