iterature than the habit of using these metaphorical
expressions in cold blood. An inspired writer, in full impetuosity of
passion, may speak wisely and truly of 'raging waves of the sea,
foaming out their own shame'; but it is only the basest writer who
cannot speak of the sea without talking of 'raging waves',
'remorseless floods', 'ravenous billows', &c.; and it is one of the
signs of the highest power in a writer to check all such habits of
thought, and to keep his eyes fixed firmly on the _pure fact_, out of
which if any feeling comes to him or his reader, he knows it must be a
true one.

To keep to the waves, I forget who it is who represents a man in
despair, desiring that his body may be cast into the sea,

_Whose changing mound, and foam that passed away,_
Might mock the eye that questioned where I lay.

Observe, there is not a single false, or even overcharged, expression.
'Mound' of the sea wave is perfectly simple and true; 'changing' is as
familiar as may be; 'foam that passed away', strictly literal; and the
whole line descriptive of the reality with a degree of accuracy which
I know not any other verse, in the range of poetry, that altogether
equals. For most people have not a distinct idea of the clumsiness and
massiveness of a large wave. The word 'wave' is used too generally of
ripples and breakers, and bendings in light drapery or grass: it does
not by itself convey a perfect image. But the word 'mound' is heavy,
large, dark, definite; there is no mistaking the kind of wave meant,
nor missing the sight of it. Then the term 'changing' has a peculiar
force also. Most people think of waves as rising and falling. But if
they look at the sea carefully, they will perceive that the waves do
not rise and fall. They change. Change both place and form, but they
do not fall; one wave goes on, and on, and still on; now lower, now
higher, now tossing its mane like a horse, now building itself
together like a wall, now shaking, now steady, but still the same
wave, till at last it seems struck by something, and changes, one
knows not how,--becomes another wave.

The close of the line insists on this image, and paints it still more
perfectly,--'foam that passed away'. Not merely melting, disappearing,
but passing on, out of sight, on the career of the wave. Then, having
put the absolute ocean fact as far as he may before our eyes, the poet
leaves us to feel about it as we may, and to trace for ourselves t