Henry David Thoreau

“ The howling winds through my soul's cordage grieve,
Till every shelf and ledge gives the alarm.
Far from the shore the swelling billows rise,
And gathering strength come rolling to the land,
And, as each wave retires, and murmur dies,
I straight pursue upon the streaming sand,
Till the returning surge with gathered strength
Compels once more the backward way to take,
And, creeping up the beach a cable's length,
In many a thirsty hollow leaves a lake. ”

“ But straightway take their loads to distant marts,
For only weeds and ballast are their care.
'T is by some strange coincidence, if I
Make common cause with ocean when he storms,
Who can so well support a separate sky,
And people it with multitude of forms. ”