Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806–1867)

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.