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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Seaweed
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    When descends on the Atlantic 
     The gigantic 
   Storm-wind of the equinox, 
   Landward in his wrath he scourges 
     The toiling surges, 
   Laden with seaweed 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 forever 
  Wrestle with the tides of Fate; 
  From the wreck of Hopes 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.
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