KONA STORMThunder and booming down within the wombOf hollow earth, that grows and dims and dies;Apart the stars are rushing; the night skiesAre flecked with white and drenched in foam and spumThe lawn is strewn with briars. In the flumeI hear the crashing cane,and there are criesOf wounded birds that fall to earth and riseOne-winged; and tall black palms thresh in the gloom.
Oh, Tempest, take me in Thy bold embrace!More lover, Thou, than men whose voices fretAgainst their ills. In storm, wind round me wetWhite arms—my sad confused sense erase:I know not mankind, nor know Thee,and yetMore love Thy majesty than any face.
KONA RAIN
The rice is blowing, winnowed with the rain,Across our pond, the broken rushes drift;Beyond the fields, the tree's a scarlet stainWhere we were yesterday.Your hands are swift—(Oh—dear, your hands are swift . . . )To turn my face from this wet window pane;Across our pond, the broken rushes drift—The rice is blowing, winnowed with the rain.
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