Dashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore,
And quick the ripples hasten back, as if
To join the Ocëanides wild glee.
But when the beaming sunlight fades away
And storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves,
Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heard
The under-current’s deep and solemn tones,
As on the shore it breaks.
How like to life
These ocean waves! When beaming with the rays