THERE is a fascination in the rage of the elements : 

 the wild roar of the winds, varying with savage 

 persistence ; the hoarse churning of broken ice 

 against white, stolid barriers on the shore, and the 

 high, tumultuous waves, with torn wreaths of foam, 

 coming out of the opacity of the driving snow and 

 spending their massive strength under the long, 

 undulating stretches of imprisoned ice* The expected 

 roar of the driving waves on the shallow slopes of 

 yielding sand is hushed under the long, slow rise 

 and fall of this crowded, floating load that seems 

 a strategic defence for the fantastic and solid ice 

 barriers that line the shore. Against the near horizon, 

 blurred by the flying needles of snow, wave after 

 wave rises in magnificent strength, shaking its mane 

 of foam loose to the impatient storm, and rushing 

 with mastering violence on the long defences. But 

 out at the margin the floating ice rises high to meet 

 every attack, and the force is slowly spent in a long, 

 diminishing undulation reaching toward the shallows, 



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