In The Storm

I.     Over heaven clouds are drifted;     In the trees the wind-witch cries;     By her sieve the rain is sifted,     And the clouds at times are rifted     By her mad broom as she flies.     Love, there's lightning in the skies,     Swift, as, in your face uplifted,     Leaps the heart-thought to your eyes.     Little face, where I can trace     Dreams for which those eyes are pages,     Whose young magic here assuages     All the heart-storm and alarm. II.     Now the thunder tramples slowly,     Like a king, down heaven's arc;     And the clouds, like armies wholly     Vanquished, break; and, white as moly,     Sweeps the queen moon on the dark.     Love, a bird wakes; is't the lark?     Sweet as in your bosom holy     Sings the heart that now I hark.     All my soul that song makes whole,     That young song I hear it singing,     Calm and peace for ever bringing     To my heart's storm and alarm.