When descended on the ocean old,
Heavier than heaven and less controlled,
You seem at its distant rim to rise,
To lift and drift and ride the sky,
Until the overburdened brain,
Wearied by labour and waves of pain,
Like a dead pendulum, doth retain,
Only its motion, not its power,
Remember in that most perilous hour,
When the grey crystal sky most afflicted and oppressed,
In the night there shall come forth rest.
The storm hath overflowed its margin.
From the distant isles distanced,
Ever restless, restless, restless,
Currents of the violent main,
Hope for sheltered coves, and reaches,
Of gold drenched beaches,
To find yourself again.