Is there a storm coming?
Blow, blow you mighty hurricanoes! Stir up the tossing tides of Triton's halls, and drive the founderings ships to wrack and ruin. As an army gathering by night prepares for the dawn attack, their shoulders hunched and eyes grim-set, so to do these waves advance, darting, feinting, the onrushing breakers like well-timed cavalry charges, then crash upon the short as the roiling clouds offer their artillery support of roaring thunder!
Barometer 30 and rising.
And so, Sing, Muse, of the fecklessness of the First Mate and it's devastation...