Beat him to earth. Like summer grass he drooped,
Amazed, while sheeted lightning large and blue
Blinked wide and pricked the quivering eyeball through.
Then, scrambling to his feet, with downward head
He fought into the tempest as chance led.
3
The wood was mad. Soughing of branch and straining
Was there: drumming of water. Light was none
Nor knowledge of himself. The trees’ complaining
And his own throbbing heart seemed mixed in one,