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ON THE SEA'S BOSOM

second trip to the West. At the time of writing it, he was probably crossing

In blue sky floats a multitude of clouds—

White, black, of snaky 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.