With shouts the torrents down the gorges go, And storms are formed behind the storm we feel: The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.

The poor old Past, The Future's slave, She drudged through pain and crime To bring about the blissful Prime, Then-perished. There's a grave!

If some books are deemed most baneful and their sale forbid, how, then, with deadlier facts, not dreams of doting men? Those whom books will hurt will not be p…

At the height of their madness The night winds pause, Recollecting themselves; But no lull in these wars.

The Westerly Wind asserting his sway from the south-west quarter is often like a monarch gone mad, driving forth with wild imprecations the most faithful of hi…

She has no strong white arms to fold you, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you - Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Loud roared the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers.