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 phantoms 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 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？