Sonett-Forum

Storm had been on the hills: the day had worn
As if a sleep upon the hours had crept;
And the dark clouds that gathered at the morn
In dull, impenetrable masses slept,

And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.
Suddenly, on the horizon’s edge, a blue
And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,

And, as it wider and intenser grew,
The darkness removed silently away;
And, with the splendor of a god, broke through

The perfect glory of departing day:
So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o’er
Will light upon the dying Christian pour.