The storm-king playeth his organ tonight--
O! weep for the mortals that heareth at sea!
The King of the storm! What god in his might,
May still the dread music, or silence the key?
The lightning, the thunder, the rain, and the blast--
How he driveth each note to its ultimate goal!
And the roll of dead worlds in the infinite vast,
How they roll in his soul, in his madness of soul!
The lightning, the thunder, the blast, and the rain--
How he playeth each note for its ultimate soul!
'Til his caverns great center grows blacker again,
With the deep where his musics great nebulas roll!
And grandeur, mad grandeur, the sweep of his song,
The raging and lurid storm grandeur of night,
Till the Souls of the Ages, to him but a throng,
Of beetling black nebula, crash in their flight.
How he laugheth, and laugheth, this maddest of Kings!
How he rageth, and rendeth his organ assunder!
Now soaring, now crashing to nethermost springs--
The maddest of music but never a blunder.
For he smiteth the sea, and he teareth the land,
And never a prayer but he laugheth to scorn!
A King and a God--should he render less grand
For sake of the ghoul haunted beeches of morn?