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music of the storm,

Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies,

Strong hum of forest tree-tops—wind of the mountains,

Personified dim shapes—you hidden orchestras,

You serenades of phantoms with instruments alert,

Blending with Nature's rhythmus all the tongues of nations;

You chords left as by vast composers—you choruses, You formless, free, religious dances—you from the Orient,

You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts,

You sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry,

Echoes of camps with all the different bugle-calls,

Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,

Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber, why have you seiz'd me?

Come forward O my soul, and let the rest retire,

Listen, lose not, it is toward thee they tend,

Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,

For thee they sing and dance O soul.

