Scarce loosed from Crete —

Then, borne on wings of flame

And sleet,

The Euroclydon came.

Strained yard, bent mast,

With fury of his mouth

The blast

Compels us to the South

Canst see, for spume

And mist, and writhen air,

A loom

Of Clauda anywhere?

Balked hopes, fooled wit!

Ah soul, to gain this loss,

Didst quit

The shelter of His cross?

Dear Lord, if Thou

Wouldst walk upon the sea,

My prow

Unblenched should turn to Thee.

Wind roars, wave yelps —

To Thy blest side I’d slip,

Use helps,

And undergird the ship.