The Sunset Storm

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The Sunset Storm  (1842) 
by Rufus Wilmot Griswold

First published September 1842

The summer sun has sunk to rest
Below the green-clad hills,
And through the skies, careering fast,
The storm-cloud rides upon the blast,
And now the rain distills!
The flash we see, the peal we hear,
With winds blent in their wild career,
Till pains the ear.
It is the voice of the Storm King
Riding upon the Lightning's wing,
Leading his bannered hosts across the darkened sky,
And drenching with his floods the sterile lands and dry.

The wild beasts to their covers fly,
The night birds flee from heaven,
The dense black clouds that veil the sky,
Darkening the vast expanse on high,
By streaming fires are riven.
Again the tempest's thunder tone,
The sounds from forests overthrown,
Like trumpets blown
Deep in the bosom of the storm,
Proclaim His presence, in its form,
Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,
Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.

The storms no more the skies invest,
The winds are heard no more;
Low in the chambers of the west,
Whence they arose, they've sunk to rest;
The sunset storm is o'er.
The clouds that were so wildly driven
Across the darkened brow of heaven
Are gone, and Even
Comes in her mild and sober guise,
Her perfumed air, her trembling skies,
And Lama, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown,
From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down.