New York Nocturnes, and Other Poems — The Atlantic Cable

The Atlantic Cable This giant nerve, at whose command The world’s great pulses throb or sleep,-- It threads the undiscerned repose Of the dark bases of the deep.

Around it settle in the calm Fine tissues that a breath might mar, Nor dream what fiery tidings pass, What messages of storm and war.

Far over it, where filtered gleams Faintly illume the mid-sea day, Strange, pallid forms of fish or weed In the obscure tide softly sway.

And higher, where the vagrant waves Frequent the white, indifferent sun, Where ride the smoke-blue hordes of rain And the long vapors lift and run, Passes perhaps some lonely ship With exile hearts that homeward ache,-- While far beneath is flashed a word That soon shall bid them bleed or break.

When the Clover blooms again