What glad awes of storm are given
Thy mad power, which has striven,—
Where the craggy forests glare,—
In wild mockery, when Heaven
Splits with thunder wedges driven
Red through night and rainy air!
What art thou, whose presence, even
While its fear the heart hath riven,
Heals it with a prayer?
PAX VOBISCUM.
1
Her violets in thine eyes
The Springtide stained I know,
Two bits of mystic skies
On which the green turf lies,
Whereon the violets blow.
2
I know the Summer wrought
From thy sweet heart that rose,
With that faint fragrance fraught,
Its sad poetic thought
Of peace and deep repose.
3
That Autumn, like some god,
From thy delicious hair—
Lost sunlight 'neath the sod
Shot up this golden-rod
To toss it everywhere.