I love this ocean-picture's pale reserve:
No tints unnatural of purpling grain,
Azure or opal, mar the rough, grey main.
The sweep, the swing, the long froth-churning curve.
The shore-ward working and confusèd swerve
Of yellowing water: white blooms wear such stain.
All dashed and muddied with the April rain.
No poor ambition did the painter serve!
Well that no laboured ship or sun-burst broke
The strong monotony of that sky and surge;
Leave, only leave, the line of stormy smoke,
The sea-birds dashed upon the nearer verge, —
Brave in its truth, this ocean-piece shall be
The type for us of Homer's harvestless sea.
II.