George Shepard Burleigh (1821–1903)

UP the black rocks the inky waters fling

Their ponderous coils, a slow, majestic weight,

Strong without rage, without convulsion great,

Like the calm breathing of some giant thing

Lifting a continent on the measured swing

Of his broad bosom. The dim cliffs dilate

In gloomy grandeur, and plunge down to sate

Their caverned jaws in this wide weltering,

As if they too were riding, like the ships,

Fixed to their moorings only! Black alike

The sea that climbs and sullen crag that dips,—

Save where they meet and crumble more than strike;

There pallid gleams illume their foaming lips,

Making the darkness wan as moonlight in eclipse!