172 • The Gull Rock.
Squatting so closely, each to each, That the ledge cannot be seen.
They perch and gossip cosily, And eat the muscles green.
��So thickly perch the snowy clans.
The ledge is a thing of life, And would almost seem to rise and soar
Above the billows' strife.
Hour after hour they sit, asleep.
With head beneath the wing, Or else disturb their neighbors all.
And scream, and laugh, and sing.
They perch in peace and sun themselves,
A gay, harmonious band. Till the laggard tide comes crawling up
Across the broad, flat sand,
And reaches, in its sure advance.
The ramparts of the rock. And serried lines of waves charge up
Like soldiers at a fort,
And reach and clutch and flow around,
And deluge, in their spite. The fortress strong they cannot shake
With all their skill and might.
Then rise the gulls, a snowy cloud,
On tireless wings to soar, And sail, like phantoms, in delight.
Along the sounding shore.
How swift they rush! how high they fly!
Then sweep, with pinions set, High over all the leaping spray,
Above the gray sands wet.
For well they know in a few hours
Again the rock will be Triumphant, left all dry by the
\'anquished, retreating sea.
And so they rise and soar away:
What grace! what ease! what might! —
In wondrous, airy, gleaming curves, And graceful lines of flight.
Screaming and laughing at their wild,
Mad revels in the air, Until again the ledge shall be
Left for tliem fresh and bare.
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