Iii

I dream his name, and there doth come to me, A vision of league-long breakers landward hurled; Of olden ships far-beating out to sea; Of splendid shining wastes of heaving green Far-stretching round the world; Of many voices heard from many lands, Torrid and Arctic, Orient, and the Line; Of heaving of vast anchors, vanishing strands; And over all the wonder and thunder and wash Of the loud, world-conquering brine. Of sky-rimmed waste, or fog-enshrouded reef, Where some mad siren ever sings the grief Of all the mighty wrecks in that weird span Since ocean and time began.