Poems (Curwen)/The Storm

For works with similar titles, see Storm.
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The Storm.
Around my little sea-girt dwelling The voices of the winds are wailing—Sobbing, moaning, howling, yelling,     Like a horde of spirits lost: Rousing me from pleasant dreaming By their wild unearthly screaming, While the rain in torrents streaming     'Gainst the panes is toss'd.
Fill'd with awe, amaze, and wonder, I listen to the surge's thunder, And watch the great waves break asunder     In showers of spray; Then shoreward, in wild fury turning, The hissing, seething, white foam churning, Then backward to the charge returning,     Like soldiers to the fray.
Onward still the wind goes sweeping, Wounding the waking, slaying the sleeping, While grim Death laughs at the harvest he's reaping     This Christmastide. And the wind rushes on, turning joy to mourning, Hushing fond lips without a warning—Lips that smiled, and kissed, at morning     Cold at eventide.
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And far, and near, on many a strand, Mothers, and wives, and daughters stand Watching for boats that will never land     Husband, father, or son. Till, chilled by the wind and flying foam, Heart-sick and weary, they turn again home Where the children are crying for "Dadda to come"—    God help each one!
desolate heart! where'er you be, Mourning your loved, on land or sea, I reach out loving hands to thee     With feeling true. Gauge, by this human heart of mine, That feels so deep for woes of thine, How the Great Heart of Love Divine     Must feel for you. ······Hushed are the voices of the blast, The force of the hurricane is past—But floating wreckage and broken mast     Speak silently Of desolate homes this Christmastide, Of battles fought on the raging tide, Ere the brave souls pass'd to the "other side,"    Where there is "no more sea."
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