Como lágrimas en la lluvia

[San Pedro de Moel.

Ya no hay naos en el Atlántico, sólo tablas de surf]

CLXXVIII.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

CLXXIX.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

[Lord Byron, "Apostrophe to the Ocean",
(from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage]

[Delacroix, The Sea from the Heights of Dieppe (1852)]