SEAWEED 
When descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 
The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks; 
From Bermuda’s reefs; from edges 
Of sunken ledges 
In some far-off, bright Azore; 
From Bahama and the dashing, 
Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 
Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 
LONGFELLOW. 
