storm

The Storm

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Within the pale blue haze above,
Some pitchy shreds took size and form,
And, like a madman’s wrath or love,
From nothing rose a sudden storm.
The blossom’d limes, which seem’d to exhale
Her breath, were swept with one strong sweep,
And up the dusty road the hail
Came like a flock of hasty sheep,
Driving me under a cottage-porch,
Whence I could see the distant Spire,
Which, in the darkness, seem’d a torch
Touch’d with the sun’s retreating fire.
A voice, so sweet that even her voice,
I thought, could scarcely be more sweet,
As thus I stay’d against my choice,
Did mine attracted hearing greet;
And presently I turn’d my head
Where the kind music seem’d to be,
And where, to an old blind man, she read
The words that teach the blind to see.
She did not mark me; swift I went,
Thro’ the fierce shower’s whistle and smoke,
To her home, and thence her woman sent
Back with umbrella, shoes and cloak.
The storm soon pass’d; the sun’s quick glare
Lay quench’d in vapour fleecy, fray’d;
And all the moist, delicious air
Was fill’d with shine that cast no shade;
And, when she came, forth the sun gleam’d,
And clash’d the trembling Minster chimes;
And the breath with which she thank’d me seem’d
Brought thither from the blossom’d limes.

 

– Coventry Patmore

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Rolling Storm

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Dark clouds moving in slowly,
Casting a shadow like that of night,
The wind silently howls to you,
You anticipate a show of delight.

Delight which did not show itself,
No dancing souls across the sky,
Dark clouds you are deceiving,
Why? Oh Why? Oh Why?

Maybe no dancing souls,
No shadows cast from this delight,
Surely the rain itself…
Is beauty within its own right.

 

– Annalee Hopkins Somerville

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She Hears The Storm

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There was a time in former years-
While my roof-tree was his-
When I should have been distressed by fears
At such a night as this!

I should have murmured anxiously,
‘The prickling rain strikes cold;
His road is bare of hedge or tree,
And he is getting old.’

But now the fitful chimney-roar,
The drone of Thorncombe trees,
The Froom in flood upon the moor,
The mud of Mellstock Leaze,

The candle slanting sooty-wick’d,
The thuds upon the thatch,
The eaves drops on the window flicked,
The clanking garden-hatch,

And what they mean to wayfarers,
I scarcely heed or mind;
He has won that storm-tight roof of hers
Which Earth grants all her kind.

 

– Thomas Hardy

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O'Connor, James Arthur, 1792-1841; The Edge of a Forest, Storm Coming On

Composed During A Storm

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One who was suffering tumult in his soul,
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,
Went forth–his course surrendering to the care
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl
Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear
Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,
An azure disc–shield of Tranquillity;
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!

 

– William Wordsworth

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