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Henry Kendall - Euroclydon
Work rating: Low

On the storm-cloven Cape 
      The bitter waves roll, 
      With the bergs of the Pole, 
And the darks and the damps of the Northern Sea: 
      For the storm-cloven Cape 
      Is an alien Shape 
With a fearful face! and it moans, and it stands 
      Outside all lands 
         Everlastingly! 

   When the fruits of the year 
      Have been gathered in Spain, 
      And the Indian rain 
Is rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun, 
      There comes to this Cape 
      To this alien Shape, 
As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth, 
      The Wind of the North, 
         Euroclydon! 

   And the wilted thyme, 
      And the patches past 
      Of the nettles cast 
In the drift of the rift, and the broken rime, 
      Are tumbled and blown 
      To every zone 
With the famished glede, and the plovers thinned 
      By this fourfold Wind — 
         This Wind sublime! 

   On the wrinkled hills, 
       By starts and fits, 
       The wild Moon sits; 
And the rindles fill and flash and fall 
       In the way of her light, 
       Through the straitened night, 
When the sea-heralds clamour, and elves of the war, 
       In the torrents afar, 
          Hold festival! 

   From ridge to ridge 
      The polar fires 
      On the naked spires, 
With a foreign splendour, flit and flow; 
      And clough and cave 
      And architrave 
Have a blood-coloured glamour on roof and on wall, 
      Like a nether hall 
         In the hells below! 

   The dead, dry lips 
      Of the ledges, split 
      By the thunder fit 
And the stress of the sprites of the forked flame, 
      Anon break out, 
      With a shriek and a shout, 
Like a hard, bitter laughter, cracked and thin, 
      From a ghost with a sin 
         Too dark for a name! 

   And all thro` the year, 
      The fierce seas run 
      From sun to sun, 
Across the face of a vacant world! 
      And the Wind flies forth 
      From the wild, white North, 
That shivers and harries the heart of things, 
      And shapes with its wings 
         A chaos uphurled! 

   Like one who sees 
      A rebel light 
      In the thick of the night, 
As he stumbles and staggers on summits afar — 
      Who looks to it still, 
      Up hill and hill, 
With a steadfast hope (though the ways be deep, 
      And rough, and steep), 
         Like a steadfast star — 

   So I, that stand 
      On the outermost peaks 
      Of peril, with cheeks 
Blue with the salts of a frosty sea, 
      Have learnt to wait, 
      With an eye elate 
And a heart intent, for the fuller blaze 
      Of the Beauty that rays 
         Like a glimpse for me — 

   Of the Beauty that grows 
      Whenever I hear 
      The winds of Fear 
From the tops and the bases of barrenness call; 
      And the duplicate lore 
      Which I learn evermore, 
Is of Harmony filling and rounding the Storm, 
      And the marvellous Form 
         That governs all!
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