Classic Poem

Tis midday. Darkness looms.
Hushed is the cricket's note
in the stubble, that moans.

In the air the thunder booms,
then seems a tired, remote,
low rumbling of stones.

Swallows with wide wings fleet
are echoing their refrain
'neath the loggia's high eaves.

Now, after breathless heat,
murmurs the sound of rain
in the poplar's small leaves.

The thunder rends the air
black, as though night were here.
Every window-blind swings.

They bolt the windows. There
a lone black-cap I hear ...
and he sings ... and he sings. . . .

In giant drops descends
the rain, then pours in streams
over meadows of mist.

The wind the heaven rends,
bursts forth with howls and screams,
and the light-flashes twist.

The water gains again,
after each foaming fall,
in a furious flood;

while, neath the rain, a hen,
sounding her anxious call,
trails along with her brood.

Scarce does the thunder wane,
which even when spent one fears,
as it rattles the blinds,

when, welcome mid the rain,
that faithful cluck one hears,
with wee chirpings behind.