A STORM is riding on the tide;
Grey is the day and grey the tide,
Far-off the sea-gulls wheel and cry--
A storm draws near upon the tide.
A city lifts its minarets
To winds that from the desert sweep;
And prisoned Arab women weep
Below the domes and minarets.
Upon a hill in Thessaly
Stand broken columns in a line
About a cold forgoten shrine,
Beneath a moon in Thessaly
But in the world there is no place
So desolate as your tragic face.
I am the Wind
I AM the wind that wavers,
You are the certain land;
I am the shadow that passes
Over the sand.
I am the leaf that quivers,
You, the unshaken tree;
You are the stars that are steadfast,
I am the sea.
You are the light eternal--
Like a torch I shall die.
You are the surge of deep music,
I but a cry!
THE ships are lying in the bay,
The gulls are swinging round their spars;
My soul as eagerly as they
Desires the margin of the stars.
So much do I love wandering,
So much I love the sea and sky,
That it will be a piteous thing
In one small grave to lie.