CLOUDS AT THE SEASIDE.

LEADEN gray are the clouds above,

Leaden gray are the waves below;

But blue is the meeting of sky and sea

Where the gray sails wander to and fro.

White is the wreath of the ocean's surge,

That girds the rocks at the verge of the sea,

Where the human fisher insects wave

Their long antennae ceaselessly.

Down below mid the waving weeds

Lies the Midgard snake of the old Norse song,

On the swelling curves of his restless coils

My boat and I are borne along.

Is it his hissing I seem to hear,

As the rain-drops sing to the billowy brine,

While the rising breeze churns the tossing deep

Till it foams like a beaker of frothing wine?

Once more to the long and steady swing,

Once more, my oars, to your measured play,

For the clouds grow dark and the world grows dim

With the coming gloom of a rainy day.

FEZ.