DEAD AND ALIVE.
77
DEAD AND ALIVE.
There's a vague and terrible something, to-night,
Abroad in the depths of the air,—
Its ghost-like breath is cold on my face,
Its fingers are cold in my hair;
I stand on the headland barren and bleak,
And strain my eyes through the dark,
And I see but the surges toss wearily up
And break on the pebble-strewn arc,—
The arc of the cape, where the lighthouse gleams,
A blood-red, tremulous spark.
Abroad in the depths of the air,—
Its ghost-like breath is cold on my face,
Its fingers are cold in my hair;
I stand on the headland barren and bleak,
And strain my eyes through the dark,
And I see but the surges toss wearily up
And break on the pebble-strewn arc,—
The arc of the cape, where the lighthouse gleams,
A blood-red, tremulous spark.
What do I look for, coming to me,—
To me, from the waste of the seas?
Orient gems, sweet-smelling spices, and silks,
Breast-high in the slow argosies?
What are jewels and odors to me,—
A regnant queen in my pride?
What do I care if the merchant-ships
Are tossed on the treacherous tide?
They are not with my fortune, or with my thoughts,
By the frailest tenure allied.
To me, from the waste of the seas?
Orient gems, sweet-smelling spices, and silks,
Breast-high in the slow argosies?
What are jewels and odors to me,—
A regnant queen in my pride?
What do I care if the merchant-ships
Are tossed on the treacherous tide?
They are not with my fortune, or with my thoughts,
By the frailest tenure allied.
I wonder—I'm full of wonder, to-night—
If the mist that is rolling down
Would choke the mortal cries of a soul,—
A soul that the ocean would drown?
If the mist that is rolling down
Would choke the mortal cries of a soul,—
A soul that the ocean would drown?
