The Storm

        The rough old Mr. Storm
            Is whirling, swirling past
        He makes the treetops bow their heads
            And trembles at his blast.

        He never stops to think
            Of the damage he may do,
        He's always rushing in and out
            And hitting, batting you.

        He pushes big, black clouds
            Against the mountain tops;
        The rain and hail comes rushing down
        In large, round crystal drops.

        The storm will soon be over;
            See the rainbow in the sky.
        The birds will sing on airy wing,
            And the bright sun shine on high.

Alan L. Strang

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Alan L. Strang

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Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air,
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The lake's dark breast
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It heaves with a sob and a sigh.
Like a tremulous bird,
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From the silent deep
The waters sweep,
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While a water-sprite,
In sea-pearls dight,
Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.

Far out in the night,
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I see a dark hull loom;
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A moment the wild swallows like a flight
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The hurrying centres of the storm unite
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