1
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？