164
FOUR SONGS OF FOUR SEASONS.
A great wind grapples
The wave, and dapples
The dead green floor of the sea with foam.
ii.
And salt‑sea foreland,
Our noisy norland
Resounds and rings;
Waste waves thereunder
Are blown in sunder,
And winds make thunder
With cloudwide wings;
Sea‑drift makes dimmer
The beacon's glimmer;
Nor sail nor swimmer
Can try the tides;
And snowdrifts thicken
Where, when leaves quicken,
Under the heather the sundew hides.
