Now heaved, his locks flowed streaming to the blast:
And now descending, ’tween the sheltering waves,
The falling tresses veil the face divine:
Meek through that veil, a momentary gleam,
Benignant shines; he dreams that he beholds
The opening eyes,—that hopeless long had rolled
In darkness,—look around bedimmed with tears
Of joy; but suddenly the voice of fear
Dispelled the happy vision. Awful he rose,
Rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea,