LEADEN gray are the clouds above,
Leaden gray are the waves below;
But blue is the meeting of sky and sea
Where the gray sails wander to and fro.
White is the wreath of the ocean's surge,
That girds the rocks at the verge of the sea,
Where the human fisher insects wave
Their long antennae ceaselessly.
Down below mid the waving weeds
Lies the Midgard snake of the old Norse song,
On the swelling curves of his restless coils
My boat and I are borne along.
Is it his hissing I seem to hear,
As the rain-drops sing to the billowy brine,
While the rising breeze churns the tossing deep
Till it foams like a beaker of frothing wine?
Once more to the long and steady swing,
Once more, my oars, to your measured play,
For the clouds grow dark and the world grows dim
With the coming gloom of a rainy day.
FEZ.
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