  Last night a storm fell on the world From height of drouth and heat, The surly clouds for weeks were furled, The air could only sway and beat; The beetles clattered at the blind, The hawks fell twanging from the sky, The west unrolled a feathery wind, And the night fell sullenly. A storm leaped roaring from its lair, Like the shadow of doom; The poignard lightning searched the air, The thunder ripped the shattered gloom; The rain came down with a roar like fire, Full-voiced and clamorous and deep; The weary world had its heart’s desire, And fell asleep. And now in the morning early, The clouds are sailing by; Clearly, oh! so clearly, The distant mountains lie. The wind is very mild and slow, The clouds obey his will, They part and part and onwards go, Travelling together still. ’Tis very sweet to be alive, On a morning that’s so fair, For nothing seems to stir or strive, In the unconscious air. A tawny thrush is in the wood, Ringing so wild and free; Only one bird has a blither mood, The white-throat on the tree. —Duncan Campbell Scott |
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