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:

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,
        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.