When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick clouds
Have hid the friendly faces of the stars,
The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and there
Some wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by them
Immunity from other lingering deaths,
And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,
Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,
And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,
And gives to men, for many and many a day,
Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,