Conjectured joys and griefs upon my sense,
As they, perhaps, guess at my purpose here;
And jealous egotisms feed suspense
As the desired, half-dreaded hour draws near.
At last a rumble, distant, ominous, hoarse,
Swells to a shattering roar that daunts the world;
And round the curve, a black embodied force
Triumphantly increases, and is hurled
Like a great wave upon us, swallowing all.
Vague figures wax and wane and fluctuate