WILD, wild the storm, and the sea high running, <br /> Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering, <br /> Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing, <br /> Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, <br /> Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering, <br /> On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting, <br /> Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting, <br /> Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing, <br /> (That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?) <br /> Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending, 10 <br /> Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting, <br /> Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering, <br /> A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting, <br /> That savage trinity warily watching.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/patroling-barnegat/
