Classic Poem

From the deep and troubled waters
Comes the cry;
Wild are the waves around me —
Dark the sky:
There is no hand to pluck me
From the sad death I die.

To one small plank that fails me
Clinging low,
I am dashed by the angry billows
To and fro;
I hear death-anthems ringing
In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes
From my lips,
As I behold the distant
White-sail'd ships
O'er the dark waters gleaming
Where the horizon dips.

They pass; they are too lofty
And remote,
They cannot see the spaces
Where I float.
The last hope dies within me,
With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking
I can see,
The new moon's crescent sailing
Pallidly:
And one star coldly shining
Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in Nature
But my moan,
The shriek of the wild petrel
All alone,
And roar of waves exulting
To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages,
Tempest-trod;
Strength fails me; coldness gathers
On this clod:
From the deep and troubled waters
I cry to Thee , my God.