A Thunderstorm At Night.

    The lightning is the shorthand of the storm
    That tells of chaos; and I read the same
    As one may read the writing of a name, -
    As one in Hell may see the sudden form
    Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame.
    How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm
    With hints of death; and in their vault enorme
    The reeling stars coagulate in flame.
    And now the torrents from their mountain-beds
    Roar down uncheck'd; and serpents shaped of mist
    Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads;
    And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist,
    Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds,
    And shake the air like Titians that have kiss'd!

Eric Mackay

Eric Mackay, born on June 1, 1851, was a noted English poet whose work gained recognition in the late 19th century. He is best known for his sonnets and lyrical poetry, which were celebrated for their emotional depth and technical mastery. His most famous work, 'Love Letters of a Violinist,' was well-received during his lifetime. Mackay's contributions to English literature have been acknowledged for their artistic merit. He passed away on June 8, 1898.

Eric Mackay

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter IV. Yearnings.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter XI. Faith.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter V. Confessions.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

A Lover's Litanies - First Litany. Virgo Dulcis.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Storm.

Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air,
    But threatening soon the low, blue mass of cloud
Rose in the west, with mutterings faint and rare
    At first, but waxing frequent and more loud.
    Thick sultry mists the distant hill-tops shroud;
The sunshine dies; athwart black skies of lead
Flash noiselessly thin threads of lightning red.


Breathless the earth seems waiting some wild blow,
    Dreaded, but far too close to ward or shun.
Scared birds aloft fly aimless, and below
    Naught stirs in fields whence light and life are gone,
    Save floating leaves, with wisps of straw and down,
Upon the heavy air; 'neath blue-black skies,
Livid and yellow the green landscape lies.


And all the while the dreadful thunder breaks,
    Within the ...

Emma Lazarus

Description Of A Thunder-Storm.

Slow boiling up, on the horizon's brim,
Huge clouds arise, mountainous, dark and grim,
Sluggish and slow upon the air they ride,
As pitch-black ships o'er the blue ocean glide;
Curling and hovering o'er the gloomy south,
As curls the sulphur from the cannon's mouth.
More grizly in the sun the tempest comes,
And through the wood with threatened vengeance hums,
Hissing more loud and loud among the trees:--
The frighted wild-wind trembles to a breeze,
Just turns the leaf in terrifying sighs,
Bows to the spirit of the storm, and dies.
In wild pulsations beats the heart of fear,
At the low rumbling thunder creeping near.
The poplar leaf now resteth on its tree;
And the mill-sail, once twirling rapidly,
Lagging and lagging till each breeze had dropt,
Abruptly n...

John Clare

A Thunderstorm

A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,
The hurrying centres of the storm unite
And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe,
Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge
Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height
With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed,
And pelted waters, on the vanished plain
Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash
That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash,
Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed,
Column on column comes the drenching rain.

Archibald Lampman

Rain For The Farmer.

If gently falls the small, soft, lazy rain,
To indoor industries he shrewdly steals;
And in the barn from some neglected grain
The choking chaff the clattering fanner reels;
Or in the shed the sapling ash he peels
For handles for the fork with humor blithe,
Or haply lards the tumbril's heavy wheels,
Or of the harness oils the leather lithe,
Or turns the tuneless stone and grinds the gleaming scythe.

But now the sky is black; and now the Storm
Prepares his legions for the coming fray,
While murmurs low prelude the dread alarm,
As prayed the hosts, - like robèd monks who pray
Mid slumb'rous incense in a cloister gray, -
Till from yon cloud the fiery signal given
Enrages all their terrible array.
Jove's flaming car is o'er Olympus driven,
And thunders ...

W. M. MacKeracher

Written On A Stormy Night.

O wild and dark! a night hath found me now
Wherein I mingle with that element
Sent madly loose through the wide staring rent
In yon tormented branches! I will bow
A while unto the storm, and thenceforth grow
Into a mighty patience strongly bent
Before the unconquering Power which hither sent
These winds to fight their battles on my brow!--
Again the loud boughs thunder! and the din
Licks up my footfall from the hissing earth!
But I have found a mighty peace within,
And I have risen into a home of mirth!
Wildly I climb above the shaking spires,
Above the sobbing clouds, up through the steady fires!

George MacDonald

Ex Tenebra.



Ex Tenebra.


    The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod,
    And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips.
    The very silence has appeal'd to God.
    In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod,
    'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse
    Had dull'd the skies, - as if, on mountain tips,
    The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene,
    And clouds were foundering like benighted ships.
    But what is this, exultant, unforseen,
    Which cleaves the dark? A fearful, burning thing!
    Is it the moon? Or Saturn's scarlet ring

Eric Mackay