On The Sea's Bosom

In blue sky floats a multitude of clouds - White, black, of many shades and thicknesses; An orange sun, about to say farewell, Touches the massed cloud-shapes with streaks of red. The wind blows as it lists, a hurricane Now carving shapes, now breaking them apart: Fancies, colours, forms, inert creations - A myriad scenes, though real, yet fantastic. There light clouds spread, heaping up spun cotton; See next a huge snake, then a strong lion; Again, behold a couple locked in love. All vanish, at last, in the vapoury sky. Below, the sea sings a varied music, But not grand, O India, nor ennobling: Thy waters, widely praised, murmur serene In soothing cadence, without a harsh roar.