Xliv

I hold them here; they are no less; I see them still--the changeful grays Of threatening skies above the haze-- My hills! that roll long, murmuring miles Of savage-painted wilderness, On which the saddened sunlight smiles; Or, like a fallen angel’s frown-- Severe beneath a burning crown-- Through sombre silvers, that oppress With clouds its glory, rushes down.

I hear the coming storm again; Again behold the streaming clouds; The autumn wind drives down and crowds Wild sibylline voices through the leaves, To whispering octaves of the rain: A wilder wind, vibrating, heaves Vast music through the rolling woods-- Upon my soul the grandeur broods, Like some archangel’s trumpet strain, Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.