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 tom 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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