The Fog
The shore may save, or the sea may score, in the unknown
final throw, When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure,
and slow !
Ah, God of the Sea, what joy there lies in that first faint hint of sun !
When the pallid curtains sulking rise, and the reaches wider run,
When a wind from the west on the sullen breast of the waters shoulders near,
And the blessed blue of the sky looks through, as the fog- wreaths curl and clear.
Ah, God, what joy when the gallant buoy, swung high on a sudden swell,
Puts fear to flight like a dream of night with its calm, cour- ageous bell,
And the dory trips the sea's wide floor with the verve 't was wont to know,
And the fog slinks back to Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow! MARBLEHEAD, 1901.
