Sunset And Storm

Deep with divine tautology, The sunset's mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like west With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old, Its miracle is manifest. Time lays the scroll away. And now Above the hills a giant brow Of cloud Night lifts; and from his arm, Barbaric black, upon the world, With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled His awful argument of storm. What part, O man, is yours in such? Whose awe and wonder are in touch With Nature,-speaking rapture to Your soul,-yet leaving in your reach No human word of thought or speech Commensurate with the thing you view.