“ Heavy and black, along the western hills
The low clouds hang; their ragged upper edge
Touching the sun, that sends a golden wedge
Down through the dark; a thunder echo fills
The heated air; the birds sing in soft trills;
A wind wave shakes the river’s reedy sedge,
And stirs the bushes on the beetling ledge;
Then moaning storm-sobs every movement stills.
The clouds roll o’er the sun: the sturdy trees
Bend to the fury of the surging blast;
A fierce, red flash shines on the sombre plain;
Then down the slopes, like high, foam-crested seas,
That on some rocky coast beat hard and fast,
Comes the wild tumult of the rushing rain.
A Thunder Storm, Thomas Stephens Collier
