A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.

The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare
And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;
He floats above, a moment hangs in air
Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.

Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights
What of them all brings keenest joy to thee—
To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,
Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?