Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Dying Storm
THE DYING STORM.
I am feeble, pale and weary,
And my wings are nearly furled!
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world!
With bitterness I 'm thinking
On the evil I have done,;
And to my caverns sinking
From the coming of the sun.
And my wings are nearly furled!
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world!
With bitterness I 'm thinking
On the evil I have done,;
And to my caverns sinking
From the coming of the sun.
The heart of man will sicken
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I 've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For widely, in my madness,
Have I poured abroad my wrath;
And, changing joy to sadness,
Scattered ruin on my path.
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I 've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For widely, in my madness,
Have I poured abroad my wrath;
And, changing joy to sadness,
Scattered ruin on my path.
Earth shuddered at my motion,
And my power in silence owns;
But the deep and troubled ocean
O'er my deeds of horror moans!
I have sunk the brightest treasure;
I 've destroyed the fairest form:
I have sadly filled my measure,
And am now a dying storm!
And my power in silence owns;
But the deep and troubled ocean
O'er my deeds of horror moans!
I have sunk the brightest treasure;
I 've destroyed the fairest form:
I have sadly filled my measure,
And am now a dying storm!