Above the purple peaks that fringe the west
The swollen clouds obey the tempest’s call,
And rear their domes and battlements of mist,
With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold;
Now changing into shapes of demon form,
With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows,
And now, like waves of darkness from old night,
Scowling and breaking on the misty hills.
A drowsy stillness steals along the plain,
The leaves are motionless on every tree,