THE HURRICANE
The azure sky grows green like ocean's brine,
The listless air is hot and strangely still,
And yet there comes a momentary thrill,
As of the coming storm, to give a sign;
The lowering clouds have gathered into line,
Their dark array enfolds the distant hill,
And on the air, so suddenly grown chill,
There comes the moaning of the rocking pine;
Then clouds of leaves and dust sweep down the lane,
Close followed by the howling hurricane.
Swift forked lightnings twist their snake-like forms
Among the clouds, and fill the sky with dread;
Deep throated thunders bellow overhead
And all things bow before the King of Storms.
The listless air is hot and strangely still,
And yet there comes a momentary thrill,
As of the coming storm, to give a sign;
The lowering clouds have gathered into line,
Their dark array enfolds the distant hill,
And on the air, so suddenly grown chill,
There comes the moaning of the rocking pine;
Then clouds of leaves and dust sweep down the lane,
Close followed by the howling hurricane.
Swift forked lightnings twist their snake-like forms
Among the clouds, and fill the sky with dread;
Deep throated thunders bellow overhead
And all things bow before the King of Storms.
SONG OF THE BROOK
I come from afar up the mountain,
The favorite child of the snow;
I leap from a laughing wee fountain,
And fall in a basin below.
The favorite child of the snow;
I leap from a laughing wee fountain,
And fall in a basin below.
By churning and boiling and gushing,
I pierce through a dark mountain wall,
And into the sunlight come rushing,
To fling far a beautiful fall.
I pierce through a dark mountain wall,
And into the sunlight come rushing,
To fling far a beautiful fall.
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