The Squall / Leonora Speyer

The Squall


IT swoops gray-winged across the obliterated hills, And the startled lake seems to run before it: From the wood comes a clamor of leaves, Tugging at the twigs, Pouring from the branches, And suddenly the birds are silent. Thunder crumples the sky, Lightning tears at it. And now the rain — The rain, thudding, implacable; The wind, revelling in the confusion of great pines! And a silver sifting of light, A coolness: A sense of summer anger passing, Of summer gentleness creeping nearer — Penitent, tearful, Forgiven.