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THE winter wind smites angrily
The palm of the gray sea;
The foam drives white across the beach, -
The clouds as black can be!
The sun drops suddenly downward thro'
A lane of purple mist;
The clouds hang low; the waves run high;
And sea and sky have kist.
The wind is wroth, and madly hurls
The blinding volleys of spray
Westward, shoreward, growing louder
To the close o' the sombre day.
The long Cape groans and shudders
At the fierce blows of the storm;
But the village windows are lighted,
And the village hearths are warm.
Near and nearer drives the ship
To the sands of Provincetown;
And pitiful faces glimmer ashore,
And a-sea the sailors drown.
A cry for help i' the darkness
When help could never be;
A voice that rings thro' tempest crash
From the lips of Italy;
Despair, that knows not tongue nor tribe,
Is the interpreter;
The women wring their hands; the men
Look and cannot stir.
The life-lines meet no answering touch
But the fingers of the foam;
The dying eyes see thro' the sleet
The lights of the stranger's home.
. . . Stark and white in the dull dawn
They lie upon the shore,
Who, thro' the storm or thro' the sun,
Shall see their homes no more -
No more the sunny bay they lov'd,
That basks at Naples' feet:
Bitter the death-ways are to tread,
Tho' death itself be sweet!
. . . At evening in the village church
Men walkt with tender tread,
And the voice of the preacher trembled, when
He pray'd for the unknown dead.
And over the icy ocean,
Hundreds of miles away,
There were voices that brake in sobs that night
When they knelt - and tried to pray!
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