The wind is fresh, the wind is foul;
The clouds are long and low and gray;
The rocky headland wears a cowl,
And looks a monk who kneels to pray
And tell his beads for parting souls:
While out beyond the bar there rolls
A sullen swell, and white and high
Along the cliffs the breakers fly.
Roar, roar, O Sea! Thy stormy song
Appalls the weak, but nerves the strong.
Look! yonder bark with puffing sail
Has turned her bow to win the sea;
She fears to meet the rising gale
With reef and rockland on her lee.
And as she luffs the blast to greet,

By halyard, clew, and straining sheet,
All, all, alert her seamen stand,
And watch with anxious eye the land.
Roar, roar, O Sea! Thy stormy song
Appalls the weak, but nerves the strong.
Then tack on tack she weathers out—
Her topsails shiver in the wind;
Down goes the helm, she flies about,
And leaping off soon leaves behind
The rocky dangers, and has past
The headland, when the wrathful blast,
Bursts from the cloud and wild and grand
Hurls in the sea against the land.
Roar, roar, O Sea! Thy stormy song
Appalls the weak, but nerves the strong.