  This giant nerve, at whose command The world’s great pulses throb or sleep,— It threads the undiscerned repose Of the dark bases of the deep. Around it settle in the calm Fine tissues that a breath might mar, Nor dream what fiery tidings pass, What messages of storm and war. Far over it, where filtered gleams Faintly illume the mid-sea day, Strange, pallid forms of fish or weed In the obscure tide softly sway. And higher, where the vagrant waves Frequent the white, indifferent sun, Where ride the smoke-blue hordes of rain And the long vapors lift and run, Passes perhaps some lonely ship With exile hearts that homeward ache,— While far beneath is flashed a word |
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