A Grievous Day Of Wrathful Winds, Of Low-Hung Clouds, Which Scud And Fly, And Drop Cold Rains, Then Lift And Show A Sullen Realm Of Upper Sky. The Sea Is Black As Night; It Roars From Lips Afoam With Cruel Spray, Like Some Fierce, Many-Throated Pack Of Wolves, Which Scents And Chases Prey. Crouched In My Little Wind-Swept Nook, I Hear The Menacing Voices Call, And Shudder, As Above The Deck Topples And Swings The Weltering Wall. It Seems A Vast And Restless Grave, Insatiate, Hungry, Beckoning With Dreadful Gesture Of Command To Every Free And Living Thing. "O Lord," I Cry, "Thou Makest Life And Hope And All Sweet Things To Be; Rebuke This Hovering, Following Death,-- This Horror Never Born Of Thee." A Sudden Gleam, The Waves Light Up With Radiant Momentary Hues,-- Amber And Shadowy Pearl And Gold, Opal And Green And Unknown Blues,-- And, Rising On The Tossing Walls, Within The Foaming Valleys Swung, Soft Shapes Of Sea-Birds, Dimly Seen, Flutter And Float And Call Their Young, A Moment; Then The Lowering Clouds Settle Anew Above The Main, The Colors Die, The Waves Rise Higher, And Night And Terror Rule Again. No More I See The Small, Dim Shapes, So Unafraid Of Wind And Wave, Nestling Beneath The Tempest'S Roar, Cradled In What I Deemed A Grave. But All Night Long I Lay And Smiled At Thought Of Those Soft Folded Wings, And Trusting, With The Trustful Birds, In Him Who Cares For Smallest Things.