Burden of Tyre, The - Part 13
The herded waves are drifting, dark
and dolent, towards no shoreward mark:
the cope of night is dense; and hard
in bronze the eastern gate is barr'd.
Their clamour dwindled long ago
to a hoarse murmur: yet they go
(Tho' there be now no wind that drives)
sullen, a witless doom of lives.
They have no hope of any light
save that red glare within the night
that tells the ending of despair:
look! thins not yon the dismal air?
and dolent, towards no shoreward mark:
the cope of night is dense; and hard
in bronze the eastern gate is barr'd.
Their clamour dwindled long ago
to a hoarse murmur: yet they go
(Tho' there be now no wind that drives)
sullen, a witless doom of lives.
They have no hope of any light
save that red glare within the night
that tells the ending of despair:
look! thins not yon the dismal air?
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