ep, deep in the
heart of the sea dwells eternal peace, and fear is dead to all who dwell
there. Starry sea-blossoms grow stilly, by the winnowing of broad fins
stirred only. When stormy terrors fall with black night on you above,
with me below is a brooding blank of light and sound, and a darkness that
can be felt lulls every sense. From that deep calm I float, I rise, to
feel the upper pulses of the sea; to meet strong currents that in the
very hair wake vigour; to leave silence far underfoot; to taste of the
glorious battle of wind and wave. Strong, foam-headed bearers take me,
whirl me as I will. There is madness, rout, and drunken frenzy of the
elements for honour of my presence. O the roar! O the rains! O the
lightning!

'Deep, deep in the heart of the sea the broad glare of this full sunlight
is softened into a mystery of amber twilight, clear and cool; and
quivering cloud-shadows dim it to pearl, and sunset throbs into it a
flush. There the light of the white moon is a just perceptible presence
of grey silver to tell me a night is cloudless. She draws me--she draws
me--to her I yearn. My heart, my love, my life, rise large and buoyant in
worship of her. To her fair face you have never looked up as I, at poise,
with earth far below and the air fathoms above. Ah, so large and near and
gracious she lies! In the faint swell of a calm she shrinks and expands,
as though she breathed with me--with the sea; a ripple of wind will comb
her into quivering lines of silver; and the heave of a wave shatter her
to fragments that vainly slide and dance to close back into the perfect
disk. Involuntarily your hands would snatch at the near splinters of
living silver. I rise through them to rarer air, and lo! my moon has fled
up immeasurably, and shines remote, concentrated, placid.

'Deep, deep in the heart of the sea, within unhewn walls, are splendid
courts, where marbles discover their shy translucence, and drink mellow
life from widespread floors of sand, golden, perfect, unwrinkled and
unstained from age to age; and drink milky fire that hangs where nebulous
sea-stars cluster that night may never prevail. Inmost wait vacant
shrines to gratify worship of sleep and dreams--pure amber one, great
crystals one, and rainbow spars. One there is of moony mother-of-pearl,
meetest covert of rest, when life grows a little weary of conquest and
play, and greatly enamoured of dreams. Ah, dreams! You with a soul--can
you dream? Nay--but I