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James Whitcomb Riley - The Cyclone
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So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn
    In conference with themselves.--Intense--intense
  Seemed everything;--the summer splendor on
    The sight,--magnificence!

  A babe`s life might not lighter fail and die
    Than failed the sunlight--Though the hour was noon,
  The palm of midnight might not lighter lie
    Upon the brow of June.

  With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings
    Of swallows--gone the instant afterward--
  While from the elms there came strange twitterings,
    Stilled scarce ere they were heard.

  The river seemed to shiver; and, far down
    Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores
  Lean inward closer, under the vast frown
    That weighed above the shores.

  Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!--
    And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path--
  Flung--he or I--out of some space accurst
    As of Jehovah`s wrath:

  Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer,
    Ere back the noon flashed o`er the ruin done,
  And, o`er uprooted forests touseled there,
    The birds sang in the sun.
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