CXVIII.
The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey,
And labors shoreward with a bending wing,
Rowing against the wind her toilsome way;
Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling
Their dewy frost still further on the stones,
That answer to the wind with hollow groans.
CXIX.
And here and there a fisher's far-off bark
Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail,