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the storm.
The Storm.
Around my little sea-girt dwelling
The voices of the winds are wailing—
Sobbing, moaning, howling, yelling,
Like a horde of spirits lost:
Rousing me from pleasant dreaming
By their wild unearthly screaming,
While the rain in torrents streaming
'Gainst the panes is toss'd.
The voices of the winds are wailing—
Sobbing, moaning, howling, yelling,
Like a horde of spirits lost:
Rousing me from pleasant dreaming
By their wild unearthly screaming,
While the rain in torrents streaming
'Gainst the panes is toss'd.
Fill'd with awe, amaze, and wonder,
I listen to the surge's thunder,
And watch the great waves break asunder
In showers of spray;
Then shoreward, in wild fury turning,
The hissing, seething, white foam churning,
Then backward to the charge returning,
Like soldiers to the fray.
I listen to the surge's thunder,
And watch the great waves break asunder
In showers of spray;
Then shoreward, in wild fury turning,
The hissing, seething, white foam churning,
Then backward to the charge returning,
Like soldiers to the fray.
Onward still the wind goes sweeping,
Wounding the waking, slaying the sleeping,
While grim Death laughs at the harvest he's reaping
This Christmastide.
And the wind rushes on, turning joy to mourning,
Hushing fond lips without a warning—
Lips that smiled, and kissed, at morning
Cold at eventide.
Wounding the waking, slaying the sleeping,
While grim Death laughs at the harvest he's reaping
This Christmastide.
And the wind rushes on, turning joy to mourning,
Hushing fond lips without a warning—
Lips that smiled, and kissed, at morning
Cold at eventide.
