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When descends
on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the
equinox,
Landword 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.
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