Poems (Sharpless)/Storm on the Hills

by Frances M. Sharpless

STORM ON THE HILLS

The awful spirits of the storm
 Gather among the hills;
The quiet vales, the shuddering woods
 Their muttering menace fills.
And plunging down the rocky steep,
 While hurrying to the distant main,
The torrent pauses, ere his leap,
 To answer them again.

Dismayed at the dark rolling clouds,
 My heart's dear friend and I
Seek out a small, deserted hut
 Until the storm pass by.
No more I heed the wild alarm,
 No more for angry tempests care,
My world is circled in my arm,
 And sunshine smileth there.