The day's wild ocean sings and thunders, <br />And beats against the fatal shore, <br />This breaker with dumb sorrow sunders, <br />And these like laughing victors roar, <br />Their sheen – one joy of vernal wonders, <br />Their sheen – vast winter's shining hoar. <br /> <br />In wrath triumphant forward swinging, <br />The lifted billow calls and fails, <br />A joyous giant shouting, singing, <br />Its voice the voice of sounding gales, <br />Its glory in the sunlight flinging, <br />Whose noonday glow it holds and hails. <br /> <br />Across the sea, now lightly foaming, <br />Another rears, that stirs the deep, <br />And floods the shore with the silence gloaming; <br />Morose and slow it seems to creep <br />Like one who drops, worn out with roaming, <br />From his bent back a fatal heap. <br /> <br />Each moment new, with changing power, <br />The surf is thundering alone. <br />Now idle, now it seems to lower, <br />Hymning a sylence all unknown, <br />Like a dark heart asleep, – for hour <br />On hour in restless monotone.<br /><br />Jurgis Baltrušaitis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-surf/
