Proud Music of the Storm

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?