Sunset And Storm

Deep with divine tautology, The sunset’s mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like west With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old, Its miracle is manifest.

Time lays the scroll away. And now Above the hills a giant brow Night lifts of cloud; and from her arm, Barbaric black, upon the world, With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled Her awful argument of storm.

What part, O man, is yours in such? Whose awe and wonder are in touch With Nature,--speaking rapture to Your soul,--yet leaving in your reach No human word of thought or speech Expressive of the thing you view.