And the dark-rolling voiceful sea, whose moan,
On the wide waste or by the storm-beat shore,
Asks the soul’s answer like a spirit tone,
And the deep soul speaks inly to its roar;
These have their language, mirthful, sad, or wild,
Like changing passion in the human breast;
We call them to us, as a wilder’d child
His home’s companions, and they give us rest;
Yet though they speak, I cannot hear—no more
Comes the sweet music of the one loved tone,