Abraham Cahan, translator of the poem, is a Russian who has attained distinction among American writers of fiction through short stories and the novels, “Yekl” and “The White Terror and the Red.”—Editors.]
OVER the gray expanse of sea the wind is gathering the clouds. Circling between the clouds and the sea, like a black flash of lightning, is the storm-petrel on high.
Now touching a wave with his wing, now shooting heavenward, dart-like, he is crying, and the clouds hear glad tidings in his cry.
There is thirst for storm in that cry. The force of rage, the flame of passion, the confidence of victory do the clouds hear in that cry.
The gulls are groaning before the storm, groaning and tossing over the sea; ready to hide their terror at the bottom of the sea.
The cargeese, too, are groaning. The joy of the struggle is unknown to them; the din of strife awes them.
The silly albatross hides his fat body in the cliffs. The proud storm-petrel alone is soaring boldly, freely over the sea, the waves singing, dancing on high, coming to meet the thunder.
The thunder roars. Foaming with fury, the waves are raging, battling with the wind. Now the wind seizes a flock of waves in gigantic embrace, now hurls them with savage hate to the rocks, shattering them to dust and masses of emerald spray.
Shouting joyously, the storm-petrel is circling like a black flash of lightning, piercing the clouds like a spear, brushing foam off the waves with its wings.
There he is, flying like a demon, a proud, black storm-demon, laughing and sobbing at once. It is at the clouds he is laughing; it is for joy he is sobbing.