The Storm

Thor, Thor is out on the hills! The frown of his fierce brow showing; His breath through his red beard blowing, With rain, through his beard that it fills.

The forests are taken; The mightiest oaks Are twisted and shaken As by chariot-spokes, Where mountains awaken To th’ hoofs of his yokes, Reined sheer with the strength of his arm-- Ride forth, O Spirit of Storm!

What hope for the sparrow, Or nest of the bird! Where fords were once narrow, What hope for the herd! When arrow on arrow He empties the third Of his quiver against their alarm-- Descend, O Spirit of Storm!

You may measure the might that he brings By the welkin that echoes his felloes; By the fork of the lightning,--that yellows The darkness,--the hammer he swings.

The cattle are scattered And low from the shore; The roses are shattered That grew at the door; The swallows look tattered, And twitter and soar, Made glad with the force of his form-- Rejoice, O Spirit of Storm!

On levels that sunder The roar of the main He ploughs with the thunder, And sows with the rain: No sunbeam shall blunder Through black till the plain Is planted with storm as a farm-- Sweep on, O Spirit of Storm!

His path is the abysm, which heaps The wild wind behind him, and hovers A whirlwind before, that uncovers The hurricane-lair where he sleeps.

At night,--through the wrestle Of winds that contend,-- To guard the good vessel From rocks that would rend, Like a star let it nestle, The light, to defend The seaman and his from all harm-- From thee, O Spirit of Storm!