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?