A grand, uncommon man was he, Broad-shoulder'd, and of Gothic form, Strong-built, and hoary like a sea; A high sea broken up by storm. His face was brown and overwrought By seams and shadows born of thought, Not over gentle. And his eyes, Bold, restless, resolute, and deep, Too deep to flow like shallow fount Of common men where waters mount And men bend down their heads and weep-- Fierce, lumin'd eyes, where flames might rise Instead of flood, and flash and sweep-- Strange eyes, that look'd unsatisfied With all things fair or otherwise; As if his inmost soul had cried All time for something yet unseen, Some long-desired thing denied. A man whose soul was mightier far Than his great self, and surged and fell About himself as heaving seas Lift up and lash, and boom, and swell Above some solitary bar That bursts through blown Samoa's sea, And wreck and toss eternally. VI. Below the overhanging boughs The oars laid idle at the last. Yet long he look'd for hostile prows From out the wood and down the stream. They came not, and he came to dream Pursuit abandon'd, danger past. He fell'd the oak, he built a home Of new-hewn wood with busy hand, And said, "My wanderings are told." And said, "No more by sea, by land, Shall I break rest, or drift, or roam, For I am worn, and I grow old." And there, beside that surging tide, Where gray waves meet, and wheel, and strike, The man sat down as satisfied To sit and rest unto the end; As if the strong man here had found A sort of brother in this sea,-- This surging, sounding majesty Of troubled water, so profound, So sullen, strong, and lion-like, So sinuous and foamy bound. Hast seen Missouri cleave the wood In sounding whirlpools to the sea? What soul hath known such majesty? What man stood by and understood? By pleasant Omaha I stood, Beneath a fringe of mailéd wood, And watch'd the mighty waters heave, And surge, and strike, and wind, and weave And make strange sounds and mutterings, As if of dark unutter'd things. By pleasant high-built Omaha I stand. The waves beneath me run All stain'd and yellow, dark and dun, And deep as death's sweet mystery,-- A thousand Tibers roll'd in one. I count on other years. I draw The curtain from the scenes to be. I see another Rome. I see A Cæsar tower in the land, And take her in his iron hand. I see a throne, a king, a crown, A high-built capital thrown down.