Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Mid-Ocean
A WASTE of heaving waters to the far horizon's rim,
And over them a vault of leaden gray;
No warmer tint or shading to relieve the aspect dim,
Save where the riven billows break away,
Revealing as we part them to the left hand and the right,
Beneath each curling crest of foam, the marvellous green light.
Here midst the heaving billows—this unending stretch of sea
Where scarce an ocean-bird has strength to fly,
Unnumbered leagues from any strand where habitations be,
Alone, no comrade vessel sailing nigh,
The deep unplumbed beneath us, and, above, a frowning dome,
I do but turn my eyes on thee, and straightway it is home!