Emma Lazarus (1849–1887)

(After Robert Schumann)

BLUE storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July

Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea:

Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony

With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.

Shall we not call him Prospero who held

In his enchanted hands the fateful key

Of that tempestuous hour’s mystery,

And with controlling wand our spirits spelled,

With him to wander by a sun-bright shore,

To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly

With disembodied Ariel once more

Above earth’s wrack and ruin? Far and nigh

The laughter of the thunder echoed loud,

And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.