The trees before the coming storm
Toss, wild as leaping Corybants
Who fling to Cybele an arm
Of rapture, and a face that pants
Through hair the ritual frenzy slants.
Vague, stormy shapes of tempest sit,
August, majestic, and immense,
Beneath the stars—as, lightning-lit,
A god might give wild audience
To awe and night and violence.
Storm is her signet; hers, who writes
Stern laws in flame; and, shadowy,
With thunder seals the rolled-out nights,
And sits in terrible mystery—
The mountain-crownéd Cybele.