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THE weltering sea the bare horizon holds,
The desolate sea where floats the ancient ark,
At whose snapped mast Hope, shivering in the dark,
Her numbed arms on her guileless bosom folds.


For thousands of such years, at fall of night,
The Soul, that steadfast pilot, sees dismayed,
While she is steering through the sobbing shade,
Her doves toward the unknown port of flight.


Scattering their plumes they sweep in search of home,
Through the mad wind that lashes them with foam,
Drunken with soaring where the tempests toss;


And every black and cynic dawn the ark
Sees floating, with their wings spread like a cross,
Upon the ironic sea their corpses stark.