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| WHO has not walk’d upon the shore, | |
| And who does not the morning know, | |
| The day the angry gale is o’er, | |
| The hour the wind has ceas’d to blow? | |
| |
| The horses of the strong southwest | 5 |
| Are pastur’d round his tropic tent, | |
| Careless how long the ocean’s breast | |
| Sob on and sigh for passion spent. | |
| |
| The frighten’d birds, that fled inland | |
| To house in rock and tower and tree, | 10 |
| Are gathering on the peaceful strand, | |
| To tempt again the sunny sea; | |
| |
| Whereon the timid ships steal out | |
| And laugh to find their foe asleep, | |
| That lately scatter’d them about, | 15 |
| And drave them to the fold like sheep. | |
| |
| The snow-white clouds he northward chas’d | |
| Break into phalanx, line, and band: | |
| All one way to the south they haste, | |
| The south, their pleasant fatherland. | 20 |
| |
| From distant hills their shadows creep, | |
| Arrive in turn and mount the lea, | |
| And flit across the downs, and leap | |
| Sheer off the cliff upon the sea; | |
| |
| And sail and sail far out of sight. | 25 |
| And still I watch their fleecy trains, | |
| That, piling all the south with light, | |
| Dapple in France the fertile plains. | |
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