"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"

. . . The wind had a voice in it as it came over the waves, and it was sadder than the end.
  There was a long, loud swishing astern of the boat, and a gleaming trail of phosphorescence, like blue flame, was furrowed on the black waters. It might have been made by a monstrous knife.

. . . When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voice to the men on the shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.

—— Crane, "The Open Boat"