With occasional spurts of hail (which hurts)
And frequent claps of thunder.
My pall of grey from day to day
Hangs over the dripping lands,
And from hour to hour of the night I pour
Unceasing as Time’s own sands.
The dreamer waking hears windows shaking.
Whipped by my lashing flood,
It splashes and sputters from spouts and gutters,
And churns the poor earth into mud.