Seaweed

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.