The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded?
The sleek-barreled swell before storm, gray, foamless, enormous, and growing—
Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing—
His Sea in no showing the same—his Sea and the same ’neath each showing—
His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills!
—Kipling.
Slowly the mist o’er the meadow was creeping,