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Leaves of Grass (1881-82)
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PATROLING BARNEGAT.
| WILD, wild the storm, and the sea high running, |
| Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering, |
| Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing, |
| Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, |
| Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering, |
| On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting, |
| Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting, |
| Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing, |
| (That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?) |
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| Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending, |
| Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting, |
| Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering, |
| A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting, |
| That savage trinity warily watching. |
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