Classic Poem

The smiths of the heavens are mending the weather;
Their hammers are beating the fragments together.
The cumulus-mountains with nebulous gorges
Are dazzled with flame of the wind-bellowsed forges;
The cloud-pillared anvils with silvery edges
Resound to the thunderous fall of the sledges;
Till broadening patches of azure are showing
Storm-welded, rain-tempered, and, splendidly glowing,
The rainbow, from valley to valley extended,
Proclaims to the world that the weather is mended.