Seaward driving, like a shriving
Gray monk cloaked in gray,
Thro' the crowded ship-enshrouded,
Buoy-bound reaches of the bay;
Misty moving phantoms proving
Vessels creeping slowly past.
Hark! the droning fog-horn moaning
From the steamer looming vast;
Bell-buoy telling when the swelling
Swell of ocean rocks its boat
Where the ledge's granite edges
Threaten ships that overfloat;
Canvas dripping, dew streams slipping
Down the black and swollen gear;
Helmsman peering at the steering
Compass thro' a watery blear;
Topsails dimming in the swimming
Vapor sea that floats o'erhead,
And the singing seaman swinging
Constantly the pilot lead;
Sun uprising with surprising
Mystic glory haunts the shroud,
Red and rolling thro' the shoaling
Eastward verges of the cloud;
Spars uplifting on the shifting
Billows of the fading mist
Seem suspended on extended
Rippling ropes of amethyst;
Day-star bursting, hotly thirsting,
Drains the fog with fervid lips;
Sunlight flashing shows us dashing
Past the port, the town, the ships.