Along the outer shoals forlorn.
And now a wind that chafed the flood
Blew down from Noel’s haunted wood;
And now in the dread tides that run
Past the grim front of Blomidon,
Over the rolling troughs, between
The purple gulfs, the slopes of green,
With sickening glide and sullen rest
The old boat climbed from crest to crest.