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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English

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Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air,
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The lake's dark breast
Is all unrest,
It heaves with a sob and a sigh.
Like a tremulous bird,
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The moon is a-tilt in the sky.

From the silent deep
The waters sweep,
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And the wavelets fly
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O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.

And the spray upsprings
On its ghost-white wings,
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While a water-sprite,
In sea-pearls dight,
Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.

Far out in the night,
On the wavering sight
I see a dark hull loom;
And its light on high,
Like a Cyclops' eye,
Shines out through the mist and gloom.

Now the winds well up
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A Thunderstorm

A moment the wild swallows like a flight
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The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,
The hurrying centres of the storm unite
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The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white
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I stepped into the lobby -- and stood still
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Pink snows of the peaches were blown,
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