A lone figure on a shaking shore screams into a savage storm. The sea foams and roars, lightning flickers, and waves slam against the rocks — then a small boat slips from sight, and panic sets in. This is a lover abandoned, drenched and bleeding, wailing for Phaon to come back. She begs the wind to carry her cry to his vessel, curses the waves for teasing her torment, and claims that the howling gale and battering surf are nothing compared to the fury inside her. The mood is raw and theatrical: every crash of water echoes the speaker's desperation, but the real tempest is her passion. The storm outside is fierce, yet it can't touch a heart already drowning in its own violent longing.
Sonnet XXII: Wild Is the Foaming Sea — Summary
Wild is the foaming Sea! The surges roar! And nimbly dart the livid lightnings round! On the rent rock the angry waves rebound; Ah me! the less'ning bark is seen no more! Along the margin of the trembling shore, Loud as the blast my frantic cries shall sound, My storm-drench'd limbs the flinty fragments wound, And o'er my bleeding breast the billows pour! Phaon! return! ye winds, O! waft the strain To his swift bark; ye barb'rous waves forbear! Taunt not the anguish of a lover's brain, Nor feebly emulate the soul's despair! For howling winds, and foaming seas, in vain Assail the breast, when passion rages there!