III

Twelve days since is it — twelve days gone,

Lord of storm, that a storm-bow shone

Higher than sweeps thy sublime dark wing,

Fair as dawn is and sweet like spring?

Never dawn in the deep wide east

Spread so splendid and strange a feast,

Whence the soul as it drank and fed

Felt such rapture of wonder shed.

Never spring in the wild wood's heart

Felt such flowers at her footfall start,

Born of earth, as arose on sight

Born of heaven and of storm and light.

Stern and sullen, the grey grim sea

Swelled and strove as in toils, though free,

Free as heaven, and as heaven sublime,

Clear as heaven of the toils of time.