A poem by Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Give wings unto the storm, and spurs to steed,
I'd move unchained as wind across the world,
Sweep onward like a torrent mountain-hurled,
Nor sea, nor height, nor valley pause to heed.
The twilight spreads a dimness o'er our speed,
And shows the diamond-stars from hoofs up-whirled,
Since daylight now her curtained blue has juried,
And mystery and magic shadows breed.

The earth sleeps, but not I--not I--not I--
Who hasten to the shore where waves are loud
And toward me in the darkness whitely crowd.
Beneath them I would still my soul's deep cry--
Like ships the whirlpools seize to drag to death--
I'd plunge within the silence, sans thought, breath.

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