Broods on an hour too dim for night or day.

O wind, O wingless wind that walk'st the sea,

Weak wind, wing-broken, wearier wind than we,

Who are yet not spirit-broken, maimed like thee,

Who wail not in our inward night as thou

In the outer darkness now,

What word has the old sea given thee for mine ear

From thy faint lips to hear?

For some word would she send me, knowing not how.

Nay, what far other word

Than ever of her was spoken, or of me

Or all my winged white kinsfolk of the sea

Between fresh wave and wave was ever heard,

Cleaves the clear dark enwinding tree with tree

Too close for stars to separate and to see

Enmeshed in multitudinous unity?

What voice of what strong God hath stormed and stirred

The fortressed rock of silence, rent apart

Even to the core Night's all-maternal heart?

What voice of God grown heavenlier in a bird,

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