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,

Blending 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?