Clinton Scollard (Клинтон Сколлард)
Sea Marvels
This morning more mysterious seems the sea Than yesterday when, with reverberant roar, It charged upon the beaches, and the sky Above it shimmered cloudless. Now the waves Lap languorously along the foamless sand, And till the far horizon swims in mist. Out of this murk, across this oily sweep, Might lost armadas grandly sail to shore; Jason might oar on Argo, or the stern Surge-wanderer from Ithaca's bleak isle Break on the sight, or Viking prows appear, And still not waken wonder. Aye, the sound Of siren singing might drift o'er the main, And yet not fall upon amazèd ears! The soul is ripe for marvels. O great deep, Give up your host of stately presences, Adventurers and sea-heroes of old time, And let them pass before us down the day In proud procession, so that we who hear Dull bells mark off the uneventful hours May glimpse the bygone bravery of the world Now moiling in its multitudinous marts, Forgetful of fair faith and high resolve In the inglorious grapple after gold!
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