A Foggy Morning

Seaward driving, like a shriving Gray monk cloaked in gray, Thro' the crowded ship-enshrouded, Buoy-bound reaches of the bay; Misty moving phantoms proving Vessels creeping slowly past. Hark! the droning fog-horn moaning From the steamer looming vast; Bell-buoy telling when the swelling Swell of ocean rocks its boat Where the ledge's granite edges Threaten ships that overfloat; Canvas dripping, dew streams slipping Down the black and swollen gear; Helmsman peering at the steering Compass thro' a watery blear; Topsails dimming in the swimming Vapor sea that floats o'erhead, And the singing seaman swinging Constantly the pilot lead; Sun uprising with surprising Mystic glory haunts the shroud, Red and rolling thro' the shoaling Eastward verges of the cloud; Spars uplifting on the shifting Billows of the fading mist Seem suspended on extended Rippling ropes of amethyst; Day-star bursting, hotly thirsting, Drains the fog with fervid lips; Sunlight flashing shows us dashing Past the port, the town, the ships.