THE FUGITIVE

In the hush of early even

The clouds came flocking over,

Till the last wind fell from heaven

And no bird cried.

Darkly the clouds were flocking,

Shadows moved and deepened,

Then paused; the poplar's rocking

Ceased; the light hung still

Like a painted thing, and deadly.

Then from the cloud's side flickered

Sharp lightning, thrusting madly

At the cowering fields.

Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,

Down the hill slow thunder trembled;

Day in her cave grew frightened,

Crept away, and died.