Storm-Waves And Fog On Dorr’s Point, Poem by Silas Weir Mitchell

THE fog's gray curtain round me draws,
And leaves no world to me
Save this swift drama of the stirred
And restless sea.

Forth of the shrouding fog they roll,
As from a viewless world,
Leap spectral white, and, pausing, break,
In thunder hurled.

Ever they climb and cling anew,
Slide from the smooth rock wall,
With thin white fingers grip the weeds
And seaward crawl.

In rhythmic rote o'er shivering sands
They glide adown the shore
With murmurous whispering of 'Hush!'
And then no more.