Classic Poem

( A AND B )

( A ) Here once in rosy June, as lay,
Half-dry and grey, the new-mown hay,
A whirlwind, wide and up cloud-high,
Came sweeping by in giddy play.

And down along the ground it flew
Uplifting hay, as in a screw,
And left it yonder, loosely hung
On trees that swung as on it blew.

( B ) Aye, blew against the now fall'n oak,
Where back some years ago there broke
Upon us here, among the hay,
One summer's day the lightning stroke,

Flung down from clouds that flew, night black,
All up the sky in darksome pack,
And split the tree, with one wide gash,
By one fierce flash, and one loud crack.

( A ) Aye crack, as when the sky-fire, red,
Caught John Coomb's pick above his head,
And there beside the oak tree's trunk
He stood, and sunk, down-smitten dead.

( B ) Aye, dead, and call'd to heaven's rest,
And now his children, highly blest,
Have little need to shrink for shame
Of shape or name among the best.