Again, the most magnificent piece of word-weaving in English
is an attempted description of the sea by a man whose command of a
certain kind of verse is marvellous. Here is the passage--
"The sea shone
And shivered like spread wings of angels blown
By the sun's breath before him, and a low
Sweet gale shook all the foam-flowers of thin snow
As into rainfall of sea-roses, shed
Leaf by wild leaf in the green garden bed
That tempests still and sea-winds turn and plough;
For rosy and fiery round the running prow
Fluttered the flakes and feathers of the spray
And bloomed like blossoms cast by God away
To waste on the ardent water; the wan moon
Withered to westward as a face in swoon
Death-stricken by glad tidings; and the height
Throbbed and the centre quivered with delight
And the deep quailed with passion as of love,
Till, like the heart of a new-mated dove,
Air, light, and wave seemed full of burning rest"--
and so on. Superb, is it not? And yet that noble strain of music gives
us no true picture of our dear, commonplace, terrible sea; it reminds
us rather of some gaudy canvas painted for the theatre.
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