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?