SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 



I walked beside a dark gray sea, 



And said, "O world, how cold thou 

 art! 



Thou poor white world, I pity thee, 

 For joy and warmth from thee depart. 



"Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 

 Winds on the crag each other chase, 



In little powdery whirls they blow 

 The misty fragments down its face. 



The phantoms of the deep at play! 



What idless graced the twittering 

 things; 

 Luxurious paddlings in the spray, 



And delicate lifting up of wings. 



Then all at once a flight, and fast 

 The lovely crowd flew out to sea; 



If mine own life had been recast, 



Earth had not looked more changed 

 to me. 



"The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 

 Winter sits cowering on the world, 



And I, besides this watery brim, 

 Am also lonely, also cold." 



I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 



Where many mews made twittering- 

 sweet; 

 Their wings upreared, the clustering 

 flock 

 Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 



A rock but half submerged, the sea 

 Ran up and washed it while they fed; 



Their fond and foolish ecstasy 

 A wondering in my fancy bred. 



Joy companied with every cry, 



Joy in their food, in that keen wind. 



That heaving sea, that shaded sky. 

 And in themselves, and in their kind. 



"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies 

 Have only dropped their curtains low 



To shade the old mother when she lies. 

 Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. 



"The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 

 Not in the snows that lap the lea, 



Not in yon wings that beat afar, 

 Delighting, on the crested sea; 



"No, nor in yon exultant wind 



That shakes the oak and bends the 

 pine. 

 Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 

 No sense of cold, fond fool, but 

 thine!" 



With that I felt the gloom depart, 

 And thoughts within me did unfold. 



Whose sunshine warmed me to the 

 heart: 

 I walked in joy, and was not cold. 



—Jean Ingelow. 



127 



