Euroclydon
On the storm-cloven CapeThe bitter waves roll,With the bergs of the Pole,And the darks and the damps of the Northern Sea:For the storm-cloven CapeIs an alien ShapeWith a fearful face; and it moans, and it standsOutside all landsEverlastingly!
When the fruits of the yearHave been gathered in Spain,And the Indian rainIs rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun,There comes to this CapeTo this alien Shape,As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth,The Wind of the North,Euroclydon!
And the wilted thyme,And the patches pastOf the nettles castIn the drift of the rift, and the broken rime,Are tumbled and blownTo every zoneWith the famished glede, and the plovers thinnedBy this fourfold Wind—This Wind sublime!
On the wrinkled hills,By starts and fits,The wild Moon sits;And the rindles fill and flash and fallIn the way of her light,Through the straitened night,When the sea-heralds clamour, and elves of the war,In the torrents afar,Hold festival!
From ridge to ridgeThe polar firesOn the naked spires,With a foreign splendour, flit and flow;And clough and caveAnd architraveHave a blood-coloured glamour on roof and on wall,Like a nether hallIn the hells below!
The dead, dry lipsOf the ledges, splitBy the thunder fitAnd the stress of the sprites of the forked flame,Anon break out,With a shriek and a shout,Like a hard, bitter laughter, cracked and thin,From a ghost with a sinToo dark for a name!
And all thro’ the year,The fierce seas runFrom sun to sun,Across the face of a vacant world!And the Wind flies forthFrom the wild, white North,That shivers and harries the heart of things,And shapes with its wingsA chaos uphurled!
Like one who seesA rebel lightIn the thick of the night,As he stumbles and staggers on summits afar—Who looks to it still,Up hill and hill,With a steadfast hope (though the ways be deep,And rough, and steep),Like a steadfast star—
So I, that standOn the outermost peaksOf peril, with cheeksBlue with the salts of a frosty sea,Have learnt to wait,With an eye elateAnd a heart intent, for the fuller blazeOf the Beauty that raysLike a glimpse for me—
Of the Beauty that growsWhenever I hearThe winds of FearFrom the tops and the bases of barrenness call;And the duplicate loreWhich I learn evermore,Is of Harmony filling and rounding the Storm,And the marvellous FormThat governs all!