The Return Home, 12

The wind puts on its breeches again,
Its white and watery breeches;
It flogs each billow with might and main,
Till it howls and rushes and pitches.

From the darksome height, with furious might
Pours the rain in wild commotion;
It seems as though the ancient Night
Would drown the ancient Ocean.

To the ship’s high mast the sea-mew clings,
With hoarse and shrill shrieking and yelling;
In anxious-wise she flutters her wings,
Approaching disasters foretelling.