Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/197

 And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; White surf wind-scattered over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher;

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush'd seraglios.

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Torn from the fringe of spray.

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the check.