Winds and wild waves in headlong huge commotion
Scud, dark with tempest, o’er the Atlantic’s breast;
While underneath, few fathoms deep in ocean,
Lie peace, and rest.
Storms in mid-air, the rack before them sweeping,
Hurry, and hiss, like furies hate-possessed;
While over all white cloudlets pure are sleeping
In peace, in rest.
Heart, O wild heart! why in the storm-world ranging
Flit’st thou thus midway, passion’s slave and jest,
When all so near above, below, unchanging,
Are heaven, and rest?