Poetry Archives

Leagues before me, leagues behind,
  Clamor warring wastes of flood,
All the streams of all the worlds
  Flung together, mad of mood;
Through the canon beats a sound,
  Regular of interval,
Distant, drumming, muffled, dull,
  Thunderously rhythmical;

Crafts slip by my startled soul—
  Soul that cowers, a thing apart—
They are corpuscles of blood!
  That’s the throbbing of a heart!
God of terrors!—am I mad?—
  Through my body, mine own soul,
Shrunken to an atom’s size,
  Voyages toward an unguessed goal!