. . . up by storm. His face was brown and overwrought By seams and shadows born of thought, Not over gentle. And his eyes, Bold, restless, resolute, and deep, Too deep to flow like shallow fount Of common men where waters mount And men bend down their heads and weep— Fierce, lumin'd eyes, where flames might rise Instead of flood, and flash and sweep— Strange eyes, that look'd unsatisfied With all things fair or otherwise; As if his inmost soul had cried All time for something yet unseen, Some long-desired thing denied. A man whose soul was mightier far Than his great self, and surged and fell 33 About himself as heaving seas Lift up and lash, and boom, and swell Above some solitary bar That bursts through blown Samoa's sea, And wreck and toss eternally.

34

VI. Below the overhanging boughs The oars laid idle at the last. Yet long he look'd for hostile prows From out the wood and down the stream. They came not, and he c. . . Read More