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On, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space roll the long heaving billows. Mountains and caves are here; for what is now the other; then all is but a boiling heap of rushing water. Pursuit, and flight and mad return of wave on wave, and savage struggle, ending up in a spouting up of foam that whitens the black night; incessant change of place and form and hue; constancy in nothing but eternal strife. 

On, on, on, they roll and darker frows the night; and louder howls the wind and more clamorous and fierce become the million voices in the sea, when wild cry goes forth upon the storm, 'A ship!'