THE THUNDERSTORM.
I'm a child of the earch, though I scoff at my birth And laugh as I lazily roll O'er the wondering plain and the glistening main That flows from the pole to the pole; And my lowering face bears a lingering trace Of the darkness that fell from the night, But the sheen of my spear flashes out far and near And dazzles old Nature with light. The trembling woods groan as they bend themselves prone, For I come with my royal train; And the obstinate oaks fall low at the strokes That I hurl with my might and main. The parched-np ground is rejoiced at the sound Of my voice, and the gasping flowers Smile up in my face with a timid grace As they bathe in my life-giving showers. A madcap gale throws the olattering hail On my path as I blunder along, While the' gathering herds and the mutestrioken birds Are aghast at my rollicking song. Even man in his might, whom nought can affright; In his heart is beginning to quake, Till he enters the obarm that oomes with the calm Stealing silently on in my wake. —" ConvWa."
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/EP18950831.2.41
Bibliographic details
Evening Post, Volume L, Issue 54, 31 August 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)
Word Count
194THE THUNDERSTORM. Evening Post, Volume L, Issue 54, 31 August 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)
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