The Storm
Not in the tropic calms I sail, where the fragrant breeze
Blows from a land of flowers over the summer seas;
But under the chill of the blast, beat back by the Storm-king's might,
Where the low-hung clouds at noon are black as a starless night.
Fierce are the tossing breakers; the storm is dark above;
Yet, in the depths of ocean, the warm gulf-currents of Love
Bear with a silent power my ship to a certain goal.
Then, through the rain and rush of the tempest—on, my soul!
Aye! And the arm grows strong in the fight, and the heart grows brave
In the crash of the thunderbolt and the roar of the breaking wave.
There is a joy in conflict, and, after the tempests cease,
Rest for the wind-racked ship in the blessed harbor of peace.
Blows from a land of flowers over the summer seas;
But under the chill of the blast, beat back by the Storm-king's might,
Where the low-hung clouds at noon are black as a starless night.
Fierce are the tossing breakers; the storm is dark above;
Yet, in the depths of ocean, the warm gulf-currents of Love
Bear with a silent power my ship to a certain goal.
Then, through the rain and rush of the tempest—on, my soul!
Aye! And the arm grows strong in the fight, and the heart grows brave
In the crash of the thunderbolt and the roar of the breaking wave.
There is a joy in conflict, and, after the tempests cease,
Rest for the wind-racked ship in the blessed harbor of peace.
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