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:

  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.