The North Sea is only herself
in the rough days of winter,
when the infinite waves are pale
and her sands, until spring, are deserted.
All her hungry, muffled patience,
toils then for her vastness
of dense spray, heavy waves
and mournful brightness.
If towards noon, the cheerless dark skies ease
the moment vanishes, the deep red moment
where, over the torpid beaches
drags the weary gold of aged suns.
And the shadow, from the blows of burst open light
withdraws, as soon as the wild horizon
sweeps up, with the mass of her tides,
the swirling of her fogs.
And the sea, sulky and spewing foam,
begins anew her combats and her trials,
engulfing, behind a wall of mists,
so many unseen sails.