The Ninth Wave

Lo, now, the end of all things come at last! —
The great ninth wave, whose coming none might
stay;
A bitter wave made strong to ruin and slay!
I stretch my hopeless hands out to the past
From which it whirls me; and I hear a blast
Of melancholy music sweep this way.
That makes my very soul afraid to pray.

And all my life shrink fainting and aghast.
O dead mute mouths and unrecording eyes;
Dead hearts that loved me, — is it well with ye?
Is death made sweeter, now that even she
For whom alway my spirit thirsts and cries —
Who, going, took the light from out of my skies —
Has joined your high and silent company?