Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



              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.

                   First publication date: January 1845

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