Past some low headland of Cathay;—­
What was that sigh which seemed so near, 250
Chilling your fancy to the core? 
’Tis only the sad old sea you hear,
That seems to seek forevermore
Something it cannot find, and so,
Sighing, seeks on, and tells its woe
To the pitiless breakers of Appledore.

V

How looks Appledore in a storm? 
  I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic,
  Butting against the mad Atlantic,
When surge on surge would heap enorme, 260
  Cliffs of emerald topped with snow,
  That lifted and lifted, and then let go
A great white avalanche of thunder,
  A grinding, blinding, deafening ire
Monadnock might have trembled under;
  And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below
  To where they are warmed with the central fire,
You could feel its granite fibres racked,
  As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill
  Right at the breast of the swooping hill, 270
And to rise again snorting a cataract
Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge,
  While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep,
And the next vast breaker curled its edge,
  Gathering itself for a mightier leap.

North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers
  You would never dream of in smooth weather,
That toss and gore the sea for acres,
  Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together;
Look northward, where Duck Island lies, 280
And over its crown you will see arise,
Against a background of slaty skies,
  A row of pillars still and white,
  That glimmer, and then are gone from sight,
As if the moon should suddenly kiss,
  While you crossed the gusty desert by night,
The long colonnades of Persepolis;
Look southward for White Island light,
  The lantern stands ninety feet o’er the tide;
There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, 290
Of dash and roar and tumble and fright,
  And surging bewilderment wild and wide,
Where the breakers struggle left and right,
  Then a mile or more of rushing sea,
And then the lighthouse slim and lone;
And whenever the weight of ocean is thrown
Full and fair on White Island head,
  A great mist-jotun you will see
  Lifting himself up silently
High and huge o’er the lighthouse top, 300
With hands of wavering spray outspread,
  Groping after the little tower,
  That seems to shrink and shorten and cower,
Till the monster’s arms of a sudden drop,
  And silently and fruitlessly
  He sinks back into the sea.