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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A Storm In Summer
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Nature that day a woman was in weakness,
 A woman in her impotent high wrath.
 At the dawn we watched it, a low cloud half seen
 Under the sun; an innocent child`s face
 It seemed to us rose--red and fringed with light
 Boding no hurt, a pure translucent cloud,
 Deep in the East where the Sun`s disk began.
 We did not guess what strengths in it were pent,
 What terrors of rebellion. An hour more,
 And it had gathered volume and the form
 Of a dark mask, the she--wolf`s of old Rome,
 The ears, the brow, the cold unpitying eyes,
 Through which gleams flashed. And, as we watched, the roll
 Of thunder from a red throat muttering
 Gave menace of the wild beast close at hand.
 Anon a wall of darkness in the South
 Black to the Zenith, and a far--off wail,
 The wind among the trees.--And then, behold,
 Flying before it a mad clamorous rout
 Of peewits, starlings, hawks, crows, dishwashers,
 Blackbirds and jays, by hundreds, scattering,
 While the Earth trembled holding as it were its breath;
 Till suddenly an answer from the ground,
 And the fields shook and a new mighty roar
 Crashed through the oaks, and in a pent--up flow
 The storm`s rage broke in thunder overhead,
 And all the anger of the passionate heaven
 Burst into tears.
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