Oft Music, As It Were Some Moving Mighty Sea, Bears Me Towards My Pale Star: In Clear Space, Or 'Neath A Vaporous Canopy On-Floating, I Set Sail. With Heaving Chest Which Strains Forward, And Lungs Outblown, I Climb The Ridg'D Steeps Of Those High-Pil'D Clouds Which 'Thwart The Night Are Thrown, Veiling Its Starry Deeps. I Suffer All The Throes, Within My Quivering Form, Of A Great Ship In Pain, Now A Soft Wind, And Now The Writhings Of A Storm Upon The Vasty Main Rock Me: At Other Times A Death-Like Calm, The Bare Mirror Of My Despair.