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O troubled sea, that longest evermore
From out thy cold and sunless depths to rise
To the bright orb that draws thee towards the skies,
And beat’st thy breast against the unyielding shore,
In the vain struggle to unloose the bands
That bind thee down to earth; in thy despair,
With sullen roar now leaping high in air,
Now moaning, sobbing on the insatiate sands;
Type of the soul art thou; she strives like thee,
By time and circumstance and law bound down,
She beats against the shores of the unknown,
Wrestles with unseen force, doubt, mystery,
And longs forever for the goal afar
That shines and still retreats, like a receding star.

— Anna C. L. Botta, Galaxy, February 1872