Proud Music of the Storm

Storm in the Rocky Mountains
Albert Bierstadt, 1830-1902

Proud music of the storm,
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies,
Strong hum of forest tree-tops - wind of the mountains,
Personified dim shapes - you hidden orchestras,
You serenade of phantoms with instruments alert,
Blending with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations;
You chords left as by vast composers - you choruses,
You formless, free, religious dancers - you from the Orient,
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts,
You sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry,
Echoes of camps with all the different bugle-calls,
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber, why have you seiz'd me?

Walt Whitman
1st stanza