A Thunderstorm At Night.

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm That tells of chaos; and I read the same As one may read the writing of a name,— As one in Hell may see the sudden form Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame. How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm With hints of death; and in their vault enorme The reeling stars coagulate in flame. And now the torrents from their mountain-beds Roar down uncheck'd; and serpents shaped of mist Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads; And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, And shake the air like Titians that have kiss'd!