The soft and plumèd bosoms every one.
O’er the white, weltering waves,
Which yawn like empty graves,
Borne on the urgings of the wind, they fly;
They reach the luring glow,
They launch and plunge, and lo!
Are dashed upon the glass, and fall and die.
So through the storm and night,
Outwearied with long flight,
Our souls come crowding o’er the angry sea.