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1849–1916

THE CYCLONE.

James Whitcomb Riley

So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn In conference with themselves.— Intense — intense Seemed everything;— the summer splendor on The sight,— magnificence!

A babe's life might not lighter fail and die Than failed the sunlight — Though the hour was noon, The palm of midnight might not lighter lie Upon the brow of June.

With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings Of swallows — gone the instant afterward — While from the elms there came strange twitterings, Stilled scarce ere they were heard.

The river seemed to shiver; and, far down Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores Lean inward closer, under the vast frown That weighed above the shores.

Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!— And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path — Flung — he or I — out of some space accurst As of Jehovah's wrath:

Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer, Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done, And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there, The birds sang in the sun.

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THE CYCLONE. · James Whitcomb Riley · Poetry Cove