Outward Bound

A grievous day of wrathful winds,     Of low-hung clouds, which scud and fly,     And drop cold rains, then lift and show     A sullen realm of upper sky.     The sea is black as night; it roars     From lips afoam with cruel spray,     Like some fierce, many-throated pack     Of wolves, which scents and chases prey.     Crouched in my little wind-swept nook,     I hear the menacing voices call,     And shudder, as above the deck     Topples and swings the weltering wall.     It seems a vast and restless grave,     Insatiate, hungry, beckoning     With dreadful gesture of command     To every free and living thing.     "O Lord," I cry, "Thou makest life     And hope and all sweet things to be;     Rebuke this hovering, following Death,--     This horror never born of Thee."     A sudden gleam, the waves light up     With radiant momentary hues,--     Amber and shadowy pearl and gold,     Opal and green and unknown blues,--     And, rising on the tossing walls,     Within the foaming valleys swung,     Soft shapes of sea-birds, dimly seen,     Flutter and float and call their young,     A moment; then the lowering clouds     Settle anew above the main,     The colors die, the waves rise higher,     And night and terror rule again.     No more I see the small, dim shapes,     So unafraid of wind and wave,     Nestling beneath the tempest's roar,     Cradled in what I deemed a grave.     But all night long I lay and smiled     At thought of those soft folded wings,     And trusting, with the trustful birds,     In Him who cares for smallest things.