Startled by his own thoughts he looked around. 
There was no fair fiend near him, not a sight
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. 
A little shallop floating near the shore
Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. 300
It had been long abandoned, for its sides
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints
Swayed with the undulations of the tide. 
A restless impulse urged him to embark
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean’s waste; 305
For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves
The slimy caverns of the populous deep.

The day was fair and sunny; sea and sky
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind
Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves. 310
Following his eager soul, the wanderer
Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat,
And felt the boat speed o’er the tranquil sea
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 315

As one that in a silver vision floats
Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds
Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled
The straining boat.—­A whirlwind swept it on, 320
With fierce gusts and precipitating force,
Through the white ridges of the chafed sea. 
The waves arose.  Higher and higher still
Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest’s scourge
Like serpents struggling in a vulture’s grasp. 325
Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war
Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast
Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven
With dark obliterating course, he sate: 
As if their genii were the ministers 330
Appointed to conduct him to the light
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate,
Holding the steady helm.  Evening came on,
The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues
High ’mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray 335
That canopied his path o’er the waste deep;
Twilight, ascending slowly from the east,
Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks
O’er the fair front and radiant eyes of day;
Night followed, clad with stars.  On every side 340
More horribly the multitudinous streams
Of ocean’s mountainous waste to mutual war
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock
The calm and spangled sky.  The little boat
Still fled before the storm; still fled, like foam 345
Down the steep cataract of a wintry river;
Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave;
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass
That fell, convulsing ocean:  safely fled—­
As if that frail and wasted human form, 350
Had been an elemental god.