The Wood-Storm
When to the winds the firm oak's stately form
Sways, while each branch is as an organ-key
Dashed to mad music by the frantic storm,
And swells the full tremendous melody,
I love amid the sounding woods to be
And with a stern and solemn rapture hear
The straining forest's thunder--it is to me
An hour of awful bliss and glorious fear!—
But wilder, stranger still, swells on the ear
That shrill sound heard amid the tempest's pause,
As it were a phantom's whisper, deep yet clear,
While its dread breath anew the spent blast draws.
Sounds not that voice, which makes the listener pale,
Like some lone forest-spirit's desolate wail?
When to the winds the firm oak's stately form
Sways, while each branch is as an organ-key
Dashed to mad music by the frantic storm,
And swells the full tremendous melody,
I love amid the sounding woods to be
And with a stern and solemn rapture hear
The straining forest's thunder--it is to me
An hour of awful bliss and glorious fear!—
But wilder, stranger still, swells on the ear
That shrill sound heard amid the tempest's pause,
As it were a phantom's whisper, deep yet clear,
While its dread breath anew the spent blast draws.
Sounds not that voice, which makes the listener pale,
Like some lone forest-spirit's desolate wail?