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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117228" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Fog</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow,<br>Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know<br>How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim.<br>Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots on the ocean’s rim.<br>Feeling the sands with its furtive hands, fingering cape and cove.<br>Where the sweet salt smells of the nearer swells up the sloping hillside rove;<br>Where the whimpering sea-gulls swoop and soar, and the great king-herons go,<br>The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then a stillness fell on crag and cliff, on beach and breaker fell,<br>As the sea-breeze brought on its final whiff the note of a distant bell,<br>One faint, far sound, and the fog unwound its mantle across the lea.<br>Joined hand in hand with a wind from land, and the twain went out to sea.<br>And the wind that rose spoke soft, of those who watch on the cliffs at dawn,<br>And the fog’s white lips, of sinking ships where the tortured tempests spawn,<br>As, each to each, they told once more such things as fishers know,<br>When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, the wan, white hours go limping by, when that pall comes in between<br>The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green!<br>Nor sane young day, nor swirl of spray, as the cat’s-paws lunge and lift;—<br>On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fishermen’s dories drift.<br>For the fishing-craft that leapt and laughed are swallowed in ghostly gray:<br>Only God’s eyes may see where lies the lap of the sheltered bay,<br>So their dories grope, for lost their lore, witlessly to and fro,<br>When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, men of the fleet, ’t is ye who learn, of the white fog’s biting breath,<br>That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn be death!<br>Though they on the lea look out to sea for the woe or the weal of you,<br>The ominous East, like a hungry beast, is waiting your tidings, too.<br>A night and a day, mayhap, ye stray; a day and a night, perchance,<br>The dory is led toward Marblehead, or pointed away for France;<br>The shore may save, or the sea may score, in the unknown final throw,<br>When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, God of the Sea, what joy there lies in that first faint hint of sun!—<br>When the pallid curtains sulking rise, and the reaches wider run,<br>When a wind from the west on the sullen breast of the waters shoulders near,<br>And the blessed blue of the sky looks through, as the fog-wreaths curl and clear.<br>Ah, God, what joy when the gallant buoy, swung high on a sudden swell,<br>Puts fear to flight like a dream of night with its calm, courageous bell,<br>And the dory trips the sea’s wide floor with the verve ’t was wont to know,<br>And the fog slinks back to Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Guy+Wetmore+Carryl">Guy Wetmore Carryl</a> from <i>The Garden of Years and Other Poems</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117228" data-title="The Fog de Guy Wetmore Carryl" data-description="The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow,/Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know/How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim./Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots o..."></div>
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