In The Storm

Over heaven clouds are drifted; In the trees the wind-witch cries; By her sieve the rain is sifted, And the clouds at times are rifted By her mad broom as she flies. Love, there's lightning in the skies, Swift, as, in your face uplifted, Leaps the heart-thought to your eyes. Little face, where I can trace Dreams for which those eyes are pages, Whose young magic here assuages All the heart-storm and alarm. II. Now the thunder tramples slowly, Like a king, down heaven's arc; And the clouds, like armies wholly Vanquished, break; and, white as moly, Sweeps the queen moon on the dark. Love, a bird wakes; is't the lark? Sweet as in your bosom holy Sings the heart that now I hark. All my soul that song makes whole, That young song I hear it singing, Calm and peace for ever bringing To my heart's storm and alarm.