Page:Poems Cook.djvu/356

It graspeth the column with crushing might,
It filleth the porch with purple light,
It wrappeth itself in the silken fold;
It darteth about the woven gold;
It cracketh the dome-span of marble and oak,
And rushes on high with its crest of smoke:
It painteth the land with a ghastly dye,
It flingeth a blood-stain over the sky.
Oh a terrible thing, in the still dark hour,
Is the Fire Curl wielding its ruthless power.

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The salt wave Curls as it hurrieth fast,
At the flood of the tide, in the face of the blast;
It rears and it rolls in bold, bright scrolls,
As the artist will of a God controls;
It beateth and bindeth the lighthouse-top;
It formeth a perch where the loud gulls drop.
Over the coral leaf, leaping and light,
It dances in robes of bridal white;
As fair teeth show in a red-lipp'd smile,
Over the wrecking breast of guile;
And the Water Curl spreadeth its fringe on the land;
A banner of might in a mightier hand.

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There's a glossy Curl that groweth,
 In fullest, greenest length;
When the summer sunbeam gloweth
 In straight, unshadow'd strength.
Far in other climes it springeth,
To our own dear walls it clingeth;
O'er the lowly porch-seat creeping,
Through the window-lattice peeping;
In uncultured beauty trailing,
O'er the garden's old gray paling.

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