WHEN descends on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox
Landward in his wrath he scourges
The toiling surges
Laden with seaweed from the rocks：
From Bermuda's reefs； from edges
Of sunken ledges
In some far-off bright Azore；
From Bahama and the dashing
Silver-flashing
Surges of San Salvador；
From the tumbling surf that buries
The Orkneyan skerries
Answering the hoarse Hebrides；
And from wrecks of ships and drifting
Spars uplifting
On the desolate rainy seas；—
Ever drifting drifting drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless main；
Till in sheltered coves and reaches
Of sandy beaches
All have found repose again.
So when storms of wild emotion
Strike the ocean
Of the poet's soul erelong
From each cave and rocky fastness
In its vastness
Floats some fragment of a song：
From the far-off isles enchanted
Heaven has planted
With the golden fruit of Truth；
From the flashing surf whose vision
Gleams Elysian
In the tropic clime of Youth；
From the strong Will and the Endeavor
That forever
Wrestle with the tides of Fate；
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered
Tempest-shattered
Floating waste and desolate；—
Ever drifting drifting drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart；
Till at length in books recorded
They like hoarded
Household words no more depart.