THE SONG OF THE WAVEThis is the song of the wave! The mighty one!Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound:White as a live terror, as a drawn sword,This is the wave.IIThis is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the TempestWhose veins are swollen with life,In whose flanks abide the four winds.This is the wave.IIIThis is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the seaAnd the waters lay smooth as a silver shield,And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword.Then a wind blew out of the morningAnd the waters rustledAnd the wave was born!IVThis is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noonAnd the white sea-birds like driven foamWinged in from the ocean that lay beyond the skyAnd the face of the waters was barred with white,For the wave had many brothers,And the wave was strong!VThis is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunsetAnd the west was lurid as Hell.The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead.Then the wind smote full as the breath of God,And the wave called to its brothers,“This is the crest of life!”VIThis is the song of the wave, that rises to fall,Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glassThat has caught the soul of the moonlight.Caught and prisoned the moon-beams;Its edge is frittered to foam.This is the wave!VIIThis is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls—Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morningIt shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand.This is the wave.VIIIThis is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life.The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strengthIn the lust of attainment.Aiming at things for Heaven too high,Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength.So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found:Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars,The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds,Whose eye is filled with the Image of God,And the end is Death!GEORGE CABOT LODGE
This is the song of the wave! The mighty one!Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to sound:White as a live terror, as a drawn sword,This is the wave.
This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed of the TempestWhose veins are swollen with life,In whose flanks abide the four winds.This is the wave.
This is the song of the wave! The dawn leaped out of the seaAnd the waters lay smooth as a silver shield,And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden sword.Then a wind blew out of the morningAnd the waters rustledAnd the wave was born!
This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the noonAnd the white sea-birds like driven foamWinged in from the ocean that lay beyond the skyAnd the face of the waters was barred with white,For the wave had many brothers,And the wave was strong!
This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out of the sunsetAnd the west was lurid as Hell.The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was dead.Then the wind smote full as the breath of God,And the wave called to its brothers,“This is the crest of life!”
This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall,Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glassThat has caught the soul of the moonlight.Caught and prisoned the moon-beams;Its edge is frittered to foam.This is the wave!
This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls—Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the colours of morningIt shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep of sand.This is the wave.
This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life.The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strengthIn the lust of attainment.Aiming at things for Heaven too high,Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength.So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found:Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars,The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds,Whose eye is filled with the Image of God,And the end is Death!
GEORGE CABOT LODGE