Proud 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 phantoms¹ with instruments alert，

    Bending 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 cataracts²，

    You sounds from distant guns with galloping³ cavalry⁴，

    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？