So the night past, but then no morning broke-- Only a something showed that night was dead. A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke, And the fog drew away and hung like lead. Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red; Like glowering gods at watch it did appear, And sometimes drew away, and then drew near. Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell, But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy, Shutting the visible sea in like a well; Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy, Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody. The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scattering Splashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering. Then Polar snow came down little and light, Till all the sky was hidden by the small, Most multitudinous drift of dirty white Tumbling and wavering down and covering all-- Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall, Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast, Coming on no known air, but blowing past. And all the air seemed full of gradual moan, As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowing The mort for gods cast out and overthrown, Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going. Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing; The Dauber felt the prelude had begun. The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sun Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prison Into another, vaster and more grim, Which in dull crags of darkness had arisen To muffle-to a final door on him. The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim, The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track. In the south-west the dimness dulled to black. Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!" The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come: Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck, And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb. Down clattered flying kites and staysails: some Sang out in quick, high calls; the fairleads skirled, And from the south-west came the end of the world. "Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling; "Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, came the men's call; It was all wallop of sails and startled calling. "Let fly!" "Let go!" "Clew up!" and "Let go all!" "Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul!" "Now up and stow them! Quick! By God! we're done!" The blackness crunched all memory of the sun. "Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen topgallants. Hurry!" The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sails Slatted and shook; out of the black a flurry Whirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails. Painting and art and England were old tales Told in some other life to that pale man, Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran.