The Thunder-Storm

By Amos Russel Wells

I came with a roar from the western sky
And over the western hill;
I shook the rocks as I thundered by,
And I bent the woods to my will.
I came at two of the village clock,
When the night was heavy with mirk;
I carried a torch in one of my hands,
And in one I carried a dirk.
I hid the torch in my folds of rain,
Till sudden I showed its glare;
I plunged the dirk in the thick of the woods
And splintered a pine-tree there.
I kindled a fire in the forcst leaves,
And put it out with my rain;
I leaped with a howi from the western ridge
And rushed o’er the western plain.
I came at two of the village clock.
And raced through the empty street.
I slashed the houghs of the arching elms,
And the high church tower I beat.
I flung my rain through the shingled roofs
And into the window—souse!
The nightgowned folk with their lamps
Hurried around the house.
The children snuggled in awesome beds,
And trembled to hear my shout;
And yet it was pleasant, so safe within,
So marvellous wild without.
Then away from the town I flung myself,
And into the eastern sea,
Where the big black waves rose up with a roar
And heavily welcomed me.
I came and I went at the beck of the Lord,
The Lord of storms and of men,
And I crouch in my cave at the end of the world
Till He beckons me forth again.

This Poem Features In: