Gray grisly tides that choke the master sun
Who domes the caves of sullen fog with pearl,
While round and still the sick white eddies swirl
Between the smothered vistas one by one;
Like ghosts the frail hysteric breezes run
Aslant the ashen world, and strive to furl
The slow drenched air in one enormous whirl
And free the ocean's breast it weighs upon.
The world is dying for a draught of air,
Great autumn air that like a hoarded stream
Floods the gigantic openness of dawn;
And, like the whispering of hopeless prayer,
The white world's voices, as if drowsed with dream,
Sigh through the muffled stillness and are gone.