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Art thou motion incarnate, O wild sea?

Is thy restlessness at once thy strength and grace?

In movement the soul of beauty lies;

Hast thou worn that as thy dress on all limbs?

I see thy billows at riotous play

Are but lines geometric on the dance.

Up thy million hands something to grasp,

Watchful inconstant thy myriad eyes,

Full of desires is thy passionate face.

Thy breast surges with bitter griefs and pangs.

Surely of thy treasure art thou deprived,

Parted from beloved, perchance, thou art,

Or what thou seekest eludes ever thy grasp,—

Is this what maddens thee and stirs thy frame?

It is wants that awaken thy spirit,

O thou beauty in destruction's guise!

Whosoever carries a hungry heart

Must embody the soul of revolt.