The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod,
And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips.
The very silence has appeal'd to God.
In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod,
'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse
Had dull'd the skies,—as if, on mountain tips,
The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene,
And clouds were foundering like benighted ships.
But what is this, exultant, unforseen,
Which cleaves the dark? A fearful, burning thing!
Is it the moon? Or Saturn's scarlet ring
Hurl'd into space? It is the tempest-sun!
It is the advent of the Phoeban king
Which tells the valleys that the storm is done!