THE CYCLONE.

So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn

In conference with themselves.— Intense — intense

Seemed everything;— the summer splendor on

The sight,— magnificence!

A babe's life might not lighter fail and die

Than failed the sunlight — Though the hour was noon,

The palm of midnight might not lighter lie

Upon the brow of June.

With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings

Of swallows — gone the instant afterward —

While from the elms there came strange twitterings,

Stilled scarce ere they were heard.

The river seemed to shiver; and, far down

Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores

Lean inward closer, under the vast frown

That weighed above the shores.

Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!—

And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path —

Flung — he or I — out of some space accurst

As of Jehovah's wrath:

Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer,

Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done,

And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there,

The birds sang in the sun.