For mine is the blood of the blackest night,
Made red by the comet’s flare;
And I am in league with the rampant blade
That leaps from the thunder’s lair.
I masque in the targe of the afterglow,
When the fisherman tacks for home;
I crouch in the track where the green-bills whirl,
And hide in the gullied foam.
O, the long-wide waves, with their snowy bloom,
When the winds are at rest, are mine;