1Or, from that Sea of Time, Spray, blown by the wind—a double winrow-drift of weeds and shells (O minimal shells, so curious-convolute! so limpid-chilly and voiceless! But will you not, to the tympans of temples held, Murmurs and echoes still bring up—Eternity’s music, faint and far,Wafted inland, despatched from Atlantica’s rim—strains for the Soul of the Prairies,Whisper’d reverberations—chords for the ear of the West, joyously soundingYour tidings outdated, still at any time new and untranslatable Infinitessimals out of my life, and quite a few a life, (For not my life and years by yourself I give—all, all I giveThese views and Songs—waifs from the deep—here, cast large and dry, Wash’d on America’s shores.
2Currents of starting up a Continent new, Overtures despatched to the solid out of the liquid, Fusion of ocean and land—tender and pensive waves,(Not protected and peaceful only—waves rous’d and ominous also. Out of the depths, the storm’s abysms—Who appreciates whence? Death’s waves, Raging above the huge, with quite a few a damaged spar and tatter’d sail.)