A gleaming glassy ocean 
  Under a sky of grey; 
A tide that dreams of motion, 
  Or moves, as the dead may; 
A bird that dips and wavers 
  Over lone waters round, 
Then with a cry that quavers 
  Is gone—a spectral sound.

The brown sad sea-weed drifting 
  Far from the land, and lost; 
The faint warm fog unlifting, 
  The derelict long tossed, 
But now at rest—though haunted 
  By the death-scenting shark, 
Whose prey no more undaunted 
  Slips from it, spent and stark.