Apocalypse

THE visions of the soul, more strange than dreams, Out-mystery sleep. For them, no day redeems, And the thing is, but is not as it seems.

I thought I saw (although I did not sleep) A Raft that clomb the surges black and steep With One who cursed the dumb God-blinded Deep.

Red as the eye of anger the Sun set; And giant Thunders round him black as jet, Gazed down into those black Deeps they beset;

"Roll on and rot for all thy corpses, Sea, That with thy moonsuck'd surges wouldest be Lord of the halcyon Earth, thine enemy—

With altercations of great waves and air, And sobs and cries of anger, wouldest tear Piecemeal her patient fields and all things there.

"Improvident, furious, idle, hot to hate Laborious Earth—her unlaborious mate, Strong but in anger, in destruction great:

Her fields and floods, where flow'rs are grown and glass'd; Thine, where thy mad waves run like things outcast, And scarce the staggering petrel braves the blast,

"Then rumble in all thy depths, Leviathan, And learn my scorn—thy master and a man. So answer me if thou art more and can." . . .

"Art thou then there, down there, O damnèd dumb Bold braggard, born to threaten yet succumb— For ever overcoming e'er o'ercome?