XVII

First came the tempest, and the world was torn

Upon its mighty passion — all the deep

Trembled before it. From the haggard steep

To the sweet valley with its brooding corn,

Its foaming lips in expletives of scorn

Lashed into life the world's eternal sleep;

Then, caught with madness, in gigantic leap

Expired upon the heights where it was born.

And then a hush — the dripping, tender rain

Falls in warm tears. The thunder could not wake

The grief that silence in her soul has furled.

Soft sighs the wind, the sea is gray with pain —

The fulness of a heart too tense to break —

And deep, unuttered sadness in the world.