AS
consequent
from
store
of
summer
rains,
Or
wayward
rivulets
in
autumn
flowing,
Or
many
a
herb-lined
brook's
reticulation's,
Or
subterranean
sea-rills
making
for
the
sea,
Songs
of
continued
years
I
sing.
Life's
ever-modern
rapids
first,
(soon,
soon
to
blend,
With
the
old
streams
of
death.)
Some
threading
Ohio's
farm-fields
or
the
woods,
Some
down
Colorado's
cañons
from
sources
of
perpetual
snow,
Some
half-hid
in
Oregon,
or
away
southward
in
Texas,
Some
in
the
north
finding
their
way
to
Erie,
Niagara,
Ottawa,
Some
to
Atlantica's
bays,
and
so
to
the
great
salt
brine.
In
you
whoe'er
you
are
my
book
perusing,
In
I
myself,
in
all
the
world,
these
currents
flowing,
All,
all
toward
the
mystic
ocean
tending.
Currents
for
starting
a
continent
new,
Overtures
sent
to
the
solid
out
of
the
liquid,
Fusion
of
ocean
and
land,
tender
and
pensive
waves,
(Not
safe
and
peaceful
only,
waves
rous'd
and
ominous
too,
Out
of
the
depths
the
storm's
abysmic
waves,
who
knows
whence?
Raging
over
the
vast,
with
many
a
broken
spar
and
tatter'd
sail.)
Or
from
the
sea
of
Time,
collecting
vasting
all,
I
bring,
A
windrow-drift
of
weeds
and
shells.
O
little
shells,
so
curious-convolute,
so
limpid-cold
and
voiceless,
Will
you
not
little
shells
to
the
tympans
of
temples
held,
Murmurs
and
echoes
still
call
up,
eternity's
music
faint
and
far,
Wafted
inland,
sent
from
Atlantica's
rim,
strains
for
the
soul
of
the
prairies,
Whisper'd
reverberations,
chords
for
the
ear
of
the
West
joyously
sounding,
Your
tidings
old,
yet
ever
new
and
untranslatable,
Infinitesimals
out
of
my
life,
and
many
a
life,
(For
not
my
life
and
years
alone
I
give—all,
all
I
give,)
These
waifs
from
the
deep,
cast
high
and
dry,
Wash'd
on
America's
shores?