And oft when gales are wildest, and the lightning's vivid. sheen Flashes back the ocean's anger, still the Phantom Ship is seen, Ever sailing to the southward in the fierce tornado's swoop, With her ghostly crew and canvas, and her captain on the poop, Unrelenting, unforgiven; and 'tis said that every word. The doom of those is sealed to whom that Phantom Ship appears: They'll never reach their destined port, they'll see their homes no more: They who see the Flying Dutchman never, never, reach (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore.) EDGAR ALLAN POE: To One in Paradise, St. iii. SPL PLENDORS of morning the billow-crests brighten, Lighting and luring them on to the land, Far-away waves where the wan vessels whiten, Blue rollers breaking in surf where we stand. Curved like the necks of a legion of horses, Each with his froth-gilded mane flowing free, Hither they speed in perpetual courses, Bearing thy riches, O beautiful sea! Strong with the striving of yesterday's surges, Lashed by the wanton winds leagues from the shore, Each, driven fast by its follower, urges Fearlessly those that are fleeting before: How they leap over the ridges we walk on, Flinging us gifts from the depths of the sea, Silvery fish for the foam-haunting falcon, Palm-weed and pearls for my darling and me! Light falls her foot where the rift follows after, |