Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A STORM, by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A STORM, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The spirits of the mighty sea
Last Line: In our grave beneath the moon!
Alternate Author Name(s): Cornwall, Barry; Proctor, Bryan Waller
Subject(s): Storms


THE spirits of the mighty sea,
To-night are waken'd from their dreams,
And upward to the tempest flee,
Baring their foreheads where the gleams
Of lightning run, and thunders cry,
Rushing and raining through the sky!

The spirits of the sea are waging
Loud war upon the peaceful night,
And bands of the black winds are raging
Through the tempest blue and bright;
Blowing her cloudy hair to dust
With kisses, like a madman's lust!

What ghost now, like an Ate, walketh
Earth -- ocean -- air? and aye with time,
Mingled, as with a lover talketh?
Methinks their colloquy sublime
Draws anger from the sky, which raves
Over the self-abandon'd waves!

Behold! like millions mass'd in battle,
The trembling billows headlong go,
Lashing the barren deeps, which rattle
In mighty transport till they grow
All fruitful in their rocky home,
And burst from phrensy into foam.

And look! where on the faithless billows
Lie women, and men, and children fair;
Some hanging, like sleep, to their swollen pillows,
With helpless sinews and streaming hair,
And some who plunge in the yawning graves!
Ah! lives there no strength beyond the waves?

'Tis said, the moon can rock the sea
From phrensy strange to silence mild --
To sleep -- to death: -- But where is she,
While now her storm-born giant child
Upheaves his shoulder to the skies?
Arise, sweet planet pale -- arise!

She cometh -- lovelier than the dawn
In summer, when the leaves are green --
More graceful than the alarmed fawn,
Over his grassy supper seen:
Bright quiet from her beauty falls,
Until -- again the tempest calls!

The supernatural storm -- he waketh
Again, and lo! from sheets all white,
Stands up unto the stars, and shaketh
Scorn on the jewell'd locks of night.
He carries a ship on his foaming crown,
And a cry, like hell, as he rushes down!

And so still soars from calm to storm,
The stature of the unresting sea:
So doth desire or wrath deform
Our else calm humanity --
Until at last we sleep,
And never wake nor weep,
(Hush'd to death by some faint tune,)
In our grave beneath the moon!





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