128
Storm at twilight.
The green sea of the forest has rolled back
Its levelled billows, and where mast-like trees
Sway to its bosom, here and there, a vine
Braced to some pine's bare shaft, clings, rocked aloft
Like a bold mariner! There is no bough
But lifteth an appealing arm to heaven.
The scudding grass is shivering as it flies,
And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother earth
Like frightened children. 'Tis more terrible,
When the near thunder speaks, and the fleet wind
Stops like a steed that knows his rider's voice;
For, oh, the hush that follows is the calm
Of a despairing heart, and, as a maniac
Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm,
Weeping fast tears, awakens with a sob
From its blank desolation, and shrieks on!
Its levelled billows, and where mast-like trees
Sway to its bosom, here and there, a vine
Braced to some pine's bare shaft, clings, rocked aloft
Like a bold mariner! There is no bough
But lifteth an appealing arm to heaven.
The scudding grass is shivering as it flies,
And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother earth
Like frightened children. 'Tis more terrible,
When the near thunder speaks, and the fleet wind
Stops like a steed that knows his rider's voice;
For, oh, the hush that follows is the calm
Of a despairing heart, and, as a maniac
Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm,
Weeping fast tears, awakens with a sob
From its blank desolation, and shrieks on!
