The Sea
Byron, George Gordon, Lord (1788-1824)

  There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
  There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
  There is society where none intrudes
  By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
  I love not man the less, but nature more,
  From these our interviews, in which I steal
  From all I may be, or have been before,
  To mingle with the universe, and feel
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

  Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean,--roll!
  Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
  Man marks the earth with ruin,--his control
  Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
  The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
  A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
  When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
  He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
 Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

  His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
  Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
  And shake him from thee;  the vile strength he wields
  For earth's destruction thou dost all depise,
  Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
  And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
  And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
  His petty hope in some near port or bay,
 And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay.

  The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
  Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake
  And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
  The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
  Their clay creator the vain title take
  Of lord of thee and arbiter of war,--
  These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
  They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

  Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;
  Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
  Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
  And many a tryant since; their shores obey
  The stranger, slave, or savage;  their decay
  Has dried up realms to deserts:  not so thou;
  Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play,
  Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow;
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

  Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
  Glasses itself in tempests;  in all time,
  Calm or convulsed,--in breeze, or gale, or storm,
  Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
  Dark-heaving;  boundless, endless, and sublime,
  The image of Eternity,--the throne
  Of the Invisible!  even from out thy slime
  The monsters of the deep are made;  each zone
 Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

  And I have loved thee, Ocean!  and my joy
  Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
  Borne, like thy bubbles, onward;  from a boy
  I wantoned with thy breakers,--they to me
  Were a delight;  and if the freshening sea
  Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear;
  For I was as it were a child of thee,
  And trusted to thy billows far and near,
 And laid my hand upon thy mane,--as I do here.

Immortal Poems of the English Language (Williams)

—from “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”