Sea-Weed

When descends on the Atlantic     
The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges   
  The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed 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 for ever Wrestle with the tides of Fate;
 From the wrecks of Hope 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.