Iii

The air is thunder-still. What motion is with us? Deep shocks of thunder fill The deep sky ruinous;

As if, down lumbering large Upon these desert tracts, He had fallen about the marge In cloudy cataracts.

And spot by spot in dust The writhing raindrops lie, And turn like blood to rust— Writhe, redden, shrink, and dry.

A Land where all day long, Day-long descanting dirge, The heavy thunders hang And moan upon the verge;

Where all day long the kite Her querulous question cries, And circles lost in light About the yellow skies;

And thou, O Heart, art husht In the deep dead of day, Half restless and half crusht, Half soaring too away.

Day-long the querulous kite Her querulous question cries, And sails, a spot of night, About the vasty skies.

The puff’d cheeks of typhoons Blow thro’ the worthless clouds That roll in writhing moons In skies of many moods,

None fruitful; and the clouds Take up the dust and dance A dance of death and shrouds— Mock, mow, retire, advance.