THE SONG OF THE STORM-FINCH
The thunder is crashing, the billows are roaring,
And foaming with rage, and they shriek and they gasp
As they strive with the gale. Now the storm-wind clasps fiercely
A bevy of waves in his powerful grasp,
And hurls them, with all his mad strength, in grim fury,
Against the precipitous cliffs of the rock.
The emerald masses of water are shattered
To spray and fine mist by the force of the shock.
The storm-finch, the bird that resembles dark lightning,
Is soaring with cries ’mid the tempest’s fierce breath;
Like an arrow he pierces the clouds; with his pinions
He dashes the foam from the billows beneath.
He darts like a haughty black demon of tempest,
In wild exultation that knows no alloy.
’Twixt the sea and the sky he is laughing and sobbing;
He laughs to the clouds, he is sobbing for joy!
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