Classic Poem

I heard a Whirlwind on the mountain peak
Pause for a space its furious flight and cry—
‘There is no Death!’ loudly it seemed to shriek;
‘Nothing that is, beneath the sun, shall die.’
The frail sick Vapours echoed, drifting by—
‘There is no Death, but change early and late;
Powerless were God's right Hand, full arm'd with fate,
To slay the meanest thing beneath the sky.’
Yea, even as tremulous foam-bells on the sea,
Coming and going, are all things of breath;
But evermore, deathless, and bright, and free,
We re-emerge, in spite of Change or Death.
Hearken, O Mountains! Waters, echo me!
O wild Wind, echo what the Man-Wind saith!