From the silent deep
    The waters sweep,
  But faint on the cold white stones,
    And the wavelets fly
    With a plaintive cry
  O’er the old earth’s bare, bleak bones.

    And the spray upsprings
    On its ghost-white wings,
  And tosses a kiss at the stars;
    While a water-sprite,
    In sea-pearls dight,
  Hums a sea-hymn’s solemn bars.

    Far out in the night,
    On the wavering sight
  I see a dark hull loom;
    And its light on high,
    Like a Cyclops’ eye,
  Shines out through the mist and gloom.

    Now the winds well up
    From the earth’s deep cup,
  And fall on the sea and shore,
    And against the pier
    The waters rear
  And break with a sullen roar.

    Up comes the gale,
    And the mist-wrought veil
  Gives way to the lightning’s glare,
    And the cloud-drifts fall,
    A sombre pall,
  O’er water, earth, and air.

    The storm-king flies,
    His whip he plies,
  And bellows down the wind. 
    The lightning rash
    With blinding flash
  Comes pricking on behind.

    Rise, waters, rise,
    And taunt the skies
  With your swift-flitting form. 
    Sweep, wild winds, sweep,
    And tear the deep
  To atoms in the storm.

    And the waters leapt,
    And the wild winds swept,
  And blew out the moon in the sky,
    And I laughed with glee,
    It was joy to me
  As the storm went raging by!

SUNSET

  The river sleeps beneath the sky,
    And clasps the shadows to its breast;
  The crescent moon shines dim on high;
    And in the lately radiant west
      The gold is fading into gray. 
      Now stills the lark his festive lay,
      And mourns with me the dying day.

  While in the south the first faint star
    Lifts to the night its silver face,
  And twinkles to the moon afar
    Across the heaven’s graying space,
  Low murmurs reach me from the town,
  As Day puts on her sombre crown,
  And shakes her mantle darkly down.

THE OLD APPLE-TREE

  There’s a memory keeps a-runnin’
    Through my weary head to-night,
  An’ I see a picture dancin’
    In the fire-flames’ ruddy light;
  ’Tis the picture of an orchard
    Wrapped in autumn’s purple haze,
  With the tender light about it
    That I loved in other days. 
  An’ a-standin’ in a corner
    Once again I seem to see
  The verdant leaves an’ branches
    Of an old apple-tree.

  You perhaps would call it ugly,
    An’ I don’t know but it’s so,
  When you look the tree all over
    Unadorned by memory’s glow;
  For its boughs are gnarled an’ crooked,
    An’ its leaves are gettin’ thin,
  An’ the apples of its bearin’
    Would n’t fill so large a bin
  As they used to.  But I tell you,
    When it comes to pleasin’ me,
  It’s the dearest in the orchard,—­
    Is that old apple-tree.