Than wake and listen to the moan
Of storm-vex’d forests nodding to the stars—
Or hear, far off, the melancholy roar
Of billows, white with wrath, battling against the shore.
“Deep on their troubled souls the shadow lies;
And in that shadow come and go—
While fitful lightnings write upon the skies,
And mystic voices chant the coming woe—
Titanic phantoms swathed in mist and flame,
The mighty ghosts of things without a name,