From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
Wild, wild the
storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the
gale, with incessant
undertone
muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air,
midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there
milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow
fierce slanting,
Where through the
murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting
swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal
flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till
daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white
combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage
trinity warily watching.