 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Nor long was, ere neath Sea-Gate large, we pass:
That severs Africs, and Europas coasts;
To Ocean-Mains wide-wandering Wilderness;
Where billows wild on billows ride; before
A thousand blustering wayward blasts. Vast Brine,
That widewhere encómpasses, wíth its many Arms;
Earths Great Dry-Lands: which formless seem to us,
As all-days' tattered skies' vague drift, on loft.
That severs Africs, and Europas coasts;
To Ocean-Mains wide-wandering Wilderness;
Where billows wild on billows ride; before
A thousand blustering wayward blasts. Vast Brine,
That widewhere encómpasses, wíth its many Arms;
Earths Great Dry-Lands: which formless seem to us,
As all-days' tattered skies' vague drift, on loft.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |