XII.
The night wind draws his trousers on,—
His foam-white hose once more;
He wildly whips the waves anon,
They howl, and rage, and roar.
From yon dark height, with frantic might,
The rain pours ceaselessly.
It seems as if the ancient night
Would drown the ancient sea.
Anigh the mast the sea-mew screams,
With hoarse shrieks, flying low.
Its every cry an omen seems,
A prophecy of woe.