After the Tornado

By Paul Hamilton Hayne

Last eve the earth was calm, the heavens were clear;
A peaceful glory crowned the waning west,
And yonder distant mountain’s hoary crest
The semblance of a silvery robe did wear,
Shot through with moon-wrought tissues; far and near
Wood, rivulet, lield—all Nature’s face—expressed
The haunting presence of enchanted rest.
One twilight star shone like a blissful tear,
Unshed. But now, what ravage in a night!
Yon mountain height fades in its cloud-girt pall;
The prostrate wood lies smirched rain and mire;
Through the shorn fields the whirls, wild and white;
While o’er the turbulent waste woodland fall.
Glares the red sunrise, blurred mists of fire!

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