Duncan Campbell Scott (1862–1947)

LAST night a storm fell on the world

From height of drouth and heat,

The surly clouds for weeks were furled,

The air could only sway and beat,

The beetles clattered at the blind,

The hawks fell twanging from the sky,

The west unrolled a feathery wind,

And the night fell sullenly.

A storm leaped roaring from its lair,

Like the shadow of doom,

The poignard lightning searched the air,

The thunder ripped the shattered gloom,

The rain came down with a roar like fire,

Full-voiced and clamorous and deep,

The weary world had its heart’s desire,

And fell asleep.

And now in the morning early

The clouds are sailing by;

Clearly, oh! so clearly,

The distant mountains lie.

The wind is very mild and slow,

The clouds obey his will,

They part and part and onward go,

Travelling together still.

’Tis very sweet to be alive

On a morning that ’s so fair,

For nothing seems to stir or strive

In the unconscious air.

A tawny thrush is in the wood

Ringing so wild and free;

Only one bird has a blither mood—

The whitethroat on the tree.