 | Poems |  |
195
III.—LOOP HEAD.
A sheer surf-beaten island fronts the shore,Close to the headland cliffs, whence stormy waves
Have rent it: there the sea imprisoned raves
Between dark dungeon walls, and evermore
Deep in that chasm, with sullen booming roar,
Comes surging in a rushing raging tide,
That pants and boils, and climbs each dripping side,
Then sinks as madly as it rose before.
Beyond, bright crests of ocean waves are tost
Into the far faint haze that ends the view:
Northward, the headlands of a rocky coast
Are white with surf—while southward, broad and blue,
The Shannon rolls, in tranquil majesty,
Into the billows of the boundless sea.
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