72 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE SWIMMER 
 
FATHER of light !  Through the black seas I swim 
 To thine arising Disk.  Seven waves suppress 
Mine head beneath their arcane bitterness ;   
 Nor on their curling summits shines one dim 
Foam-flake made lustrous by the light of him 
 To whom I strive.  O blank, black wilderness 
 Of iron water !  O this stormy stress 
Of strength that strains toward thine auroral rim !   
 
Caught up on the wild crest, thine orb I glimpse ;   
 Thrust in the trough, the salt wave chokes and blinds. 
Shrill shrieks the wind, the voice of myriad imps ;   
 And mine own mockery might match the wind’s 
 Save that—I struggle vainly, that is true ;   
But—thou art rising, and the sea burns blue !