The Storm
The souls of the cruel, dead kings ride out on the wind tonight,
They slash the trees as they pass, and the branches shiver and fall;
They thunder with galloping hoofs on the roofs of cottage and hall,
And the flame on the hearth leaps high, and we cross ourselves in fright.
Kings that were slain in fury, and kings that perished in pride,
They have bridled the black North winds and loosed them to work their will,
They crash through the lowest valley, they sweep up the highest hill,
And the sound of a thousand trumpets goes with them the while they ride.
The souls of the cruel, dead kings are out in the hail and snow.
(That was a mailed hand striking just now at the window bars)!
I wish I might think of my placid saints or the friendly, vigilant stars;
But my heart is a blown and trampled leaf on the roads the mad kings go.
They slash the trees as they pass, and the branches shiver and fall;
They thunder with galloping hoofs on the roofs of cottage and hall,
And the flame on the hearth leaps high, and we cross ourselves in fright.
Kings that were slain in fury, and kings that perished in pride,
They have bridled the black North winds and loosed them to work their will,
They crash through the lowest valley, they sweep up the highest hill,
And the sound of a thousand trumpets goes with them the while they ride.
The souls of the cruel, dead kings are out in the hail and snow.
(That was a mailed hand striking just now at the window bars)!
I wish I might think of my placid saints or the friendly, vigilant stars;
But my heart is a blown and trampled leaf on the roads the mad kings go.
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