And when there is no space ‘twixt surf and sky,
And all the universe seems cloud and wave,
It is the immitigable wind, not I,
That scoops men’s grave.
I wonder how the blast can hear them moan
For pity, yet keep deaf unto their prayers.
I have too many sorrows of my own,
Not to feel theirs.
And when the season of sweet joy comes round,
My bosom to their rapture heaves and swells;