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,
    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:

    Front 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,
    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.


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