 | Leaves of grass (1872) |  |
11
33
I turn, but do not extricate myself,Confused, a past-reading, another, but with darkness yet.
34
The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind—the wreck-guns sound,The tempest lulls—the moon comes floundering through the drifts.
35
I look where the ship helplessly heads end on—I hear the burst as she strikes—I hear the howls of dismay—they grow fainter and fainter.36
I cannot aid with my wringing fingers,I can but rush to the surf, and let it drench me and freeze upon me.
37
I search with the crowd—not one of the company is wash'd to us alive;In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them in rows in a barn.
| Leaves of grass (1872) | |