A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor’s shroud:
Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run.
Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heaped in one.
With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast,
As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last.
Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;
It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave.
Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face—
I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!
I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine.