Came rushing with her might
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown,
Then with each fitful blast
Prophetic murmurs pass’d,
Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise
With every gusty wail that o’er the wind-harp flies.
“Fold, fold thy wings,” they cried, “and strive no more—
Faint spirit! strive no more: for thee too strong
Are outward ill and wrong,