The mighty waste of moaning waters lay
So goldenly in moonlight, whose clear lamp
With its long line of vibratory lustre
Trembled on the dun surface, that my Spirit
Was buoyant with rejoicings. Each hoar wave
With crisped undulation arching rose,
Thence falling in white ridge with sinuous slope
Dashed headlong to the shore and spread along
The sands its tender fringe of creamy spray.
Thereat my shallop lightly I unbound,
Spread my white sail and rode exulting on
The placid murmurings of each feathery wave
That hurried into sparkles round the cleaving
Of my dark Prow; but scarcely had I past
The third white line of breakers when a squall
Fell on me from the North, an inky Congress
Of the Republican clouds unto the zenith
Rushed from the horizon upwards with the speed
Of their own thunder-bolts.
The seas divided and dim Phantasies
Came thronging thickly round me, with hot eyes
Unutterable things flitting by me;
Semblance of palpability was in them,
Albeit the wavering lightnings glittered through
Their shadowed immaterialities.
Black shapes clung to my boat; a sullen owl
Perched on the Prow, and overhead the hum
As of infernal Spirits in mid Heaven
Holding aerial council caught mine ear.
Then came a band of melancholy sprites,
White as their shrouds and motionlessly pale
Like some young Ashwood when the argent Moon
Looks in upon its many silver stems.
And thrice my name was syllabled in the air
And thrice upon the wave, like that loud voice
Which through the deep dark night in the olden time
Came sounding o'er the lone Ionian.