Poems About Storms | DiscoverPoetry.com

Before the Breath of Storm

by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

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Before the breath of storm.
While yet the long, bright afternoons are warm,
Under this stainless arch of azure sky
The air is filled with gathering wings for flight;
Yet with the shrill mirth and the loud delight
Comes the foreboding sorrow of this cry—
"Till the storm scatter and the gloom dispel,
Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!"

Why will ye go so soon,
In these soft hours, this sweeter month than June?
The liquid air floats over field and tree
A veil of dreams;—where do ye find the sting?
A gold enchantment sleeps upon the sea
And purple hills;—why have ye taken wing?
But faint, far-heard, the answers fall and swell—
"Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!"

The Rising of the Storm

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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The lake's dark breast
Is all unrest,
It heaves with a sob and a sigh.
Like a tremulous bird,
From its slumber stirred,
The moon is a-tilt in the sky.

From the silent deep
The waters sweep,
But faint on the cold white stones,
And the wavelets fly
With a plaintive cry
O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.

And the spray upsprings
On its ghost-white wings,
And tosses a kiss at the stars;
While a water-sprite,
In sea-pearls dight,
Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.

Far out in the night,
On the wavering sight
I see a dark hull loom;
And its light on high,
Like a Cyclops' eye,
Shines out through the mist and gloom.

Now the winds well up
From the earth's deep cup,
And fall on the sea and shore,
And against the pier
The waters rear
And break with a sullen roar.

Up comes the gale,
And the mist-wrought veil
Gives way to the lightning's glare,
And the cloud-drifts fall,
A sombre pall,
O'er water, earth, and air.

The storm-king flies,
His whip he plies,
And bellows down the wind.
The lightning rash
With blinding flash
Comes pricking on behind.

Rise, waters, rise,
And taunt the skies
With your swift-flitting form.
Sweep, wild winds, sweep,
And tear the deep
To atoms in the storm.

And the waters leapt,
And the wild winds swept,
And blew out the moon in the sky,
And I laughed with glee,
It was joy to me
As the storm went raging by!

Storm-Sun

by Ruby Archer

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Come and marvel at the sunset!
Lo—a storm is brooding near,—
All the thirsty world imploring,
In a mood akin to fear.

Like a beaker in her fingers
Holds the world the valley high,
Mountain-lipped and cañon-hearted,
To the largess of the sky.

But the sky, capricious ever,
Hides the storm unbroken still;
And the pallid, sun-born nectar
Doth the beaker brimming fill.

See the weirdly golden essence
Lurk along, the shades between,
'Till it drowns and rolls above them
In triumphant glare of sheen.

The Thunder-Storm

by Amos Russel Wells

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I came with a roar from the western sky
And over the western hill;
I shook the rocks as I thundered by,
And I bent the woods to my will.

I came at two of the village clock,
When the night was heavy with mirk;
I carried a torch in one of my hands,
And in one I carried a dirk.

I hid the torch in my folds of rain,
Till sudden I showed its glare;
I plunged the dirk in the thick of the woods
And splintered a pine-tree there.

I kindled a fire in the forcst leaves,
And put it out with my rain;
I leaped with a howi from the western ridge
And rushed o'er the western plain.

I came at two of the village clock.
And raced through the empty street.
I slashed the houghs of the arching elms,
And the high church tower I beat.

I flung my rain through the shingled roofs
And into the window—souse!
The nightgowned folk with their lamps
Hurried around the house.

The children snuggled in awesome beds,
And trembled to hear my shout;
And yet it was pleasant, so safe within,
So marvellous wild without.

Then away from the town I flung myself,
And into the eastern sea,
Where the big black waves rose up with a roar
And heavily welcomed me.

I came and I went at the beck of the Lord,
The Lord of storms and of men,
And I crouch in my cave at the end of the world
Till He beckons me forth again.

Changing Time

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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The cloud looked in at the window,
And said to the day, "Be dark!"
And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
To stifle the song of the lark.

The wind sprang up in the tree tops
And shrieked with a voice of death,
But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
Was touched with a violet's breath.

Summer Storm

by Sara Teasdale

The panther wind
Leaps out of the night,
The snake of lightning
Is twisting and white,
The lion of thunder
Roars—and we
Sit still and content
Under a tree—
We have met fate together
And love and pain,
Why should we fear
The wrath of the rain!

The farthest thunder that I heard

by Emily Dickinson

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The farthest thunder that I heard
Was nearer than the sky,
And rumbles still, though torrid noons
Have lain their missiles by.
The lightning that preceded it
Struck no one but myself,
But I would not exchange the bolt
For all the rest of life.
Indebtedness to oxygen
The chemist may repay,
But not the obligation
To electricity.
It founds the homes and decks the days,
And every clamor bright
Is but the gleam concomitant
Of that waylaying light.
The thought is quiet as a flake, —
A crash without a sound;
How life's reverberation
Its explanation found!

A Thunder-Storm

by Emily Dickinson

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The wind begun to rock the grass
With threatening tunes and low, —
He flung a menace at the earth,
A menace at the sky.

The leaves unhooked themselves from trees
And started all abroad;
The dust did scoop itself like hands
And throw away the road.

The wagons quickened on the streets,
The thunder hurried slow;
The lightning showed a yellow beak,
And then a livid claw.

The birds put up the bars to nests,
The cattle fled to barns;
There came one drop of giant rain,
And then, as if the hands

That held the dams had parted hold,
The waters wrecked the sky,
But overlooked my father's house,
Just quartering a tree.

A Mountain Storm

by Katharine Lee Bates

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Our blue sierras shone serene, sublime,
When ghostly shapes came crowding up the air,
Shadowing the landscape with some vast despair;

And all was changed as in weird pantomime,
Transfigured into vague, fantastic form
By that tremendous carnival of storm.

Pilgrim processions of bowed trees that climb
To sacred summits, in the clashing hail
Shuddered like flagellants beneath the flail.

Most gracious hills, in that tempestuous time,
Went wild as angered bulls, with bellowing cry
And goring horns that strove to charge the sky.

Masses of rock, long gnawed by stealthy rime,
With sudden roar that made our bravest blanch,
Came volleying down in fatal avalanche.

All nature seemed convulsed in some fierce crime,
And then a rainbow, and behold! the sun
Went comforting the harebells one by one;

And all was still save for the vesper chime
From far, faint belfry bathed in creamy light,
And the soft footfalls of the coming night.

Thunderstorm on the Alps

George Gordon Byron

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Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwell in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet, as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep—
All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain coast,
All is concentered in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defense.

The sky is changed! and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night.—Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines,—a phosphoric sea!
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again, 'tis black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage,
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then—departed.
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years, all winters,—war within themselves to wage.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand!
For here, not one, but many make their play,
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around! Of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
His lightnings,—as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There, the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.

The Storm

by Emily Dickinson

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There came a wind like a bugle;
It quivered through the grass,
And a green chill upon the heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the windows and the doors
As from an emerald ghost;
The doom's electric moccason
That very instant passed.
On a strange mob of panting trees,
And fences fled away,
And rivers where the houses ran
The living looked that day.
The bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings whirled.
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the world!

Summer Storm

by Bliss Carman

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The hilltop trees are bowing
Under the coming of storm.
The low, gray clouds are trailing
Like squadrons that sweep and form,
With their ammunition of rain.

Then the trumpeter wind gives signal
To unlimber the viewless guns;
The cattle huddle together;
Indoors the farmer runs;
And the first shot lashes the pane.

They charge through the quiet orchard;
One pear tree is snapped like a wand;
As they sweep from the shattered hillside,
Ruffling the blackened pond,
Ere the sun takes the field again.

A Tempest

by Emily Dickinson

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An awful tempest mashed the air,
The clouds were gaunt and few;
A black, as of a spectre's cloak,
Hid heaven and earth from view.

The creatures chuckled on the roofs
And whistled in the air,
And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth.
And swung their frenzied hair.

The morning lit, the birds arose;
The monster's faded eyes
Turned slowly to his native coast,
And peace was Paradise!

The Storm

by Anna Hempstead Branch

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The wind was a crowd,
Wet birds were the skies,
I marched laughing aloud
With the storm in my eyes.

Part beast and part bird,
A waif of the plain,
My laughter was heard
With the voice of the rain.

I thought I remembered
A night long ago
When our hoofs beat the sod
And we rushed to and fro,

Our flanks steaming hot,
Rain-driven and warm!
I had almost forgot
Till I ran with the storm.

I thought I remembered
Black roads to a star,
When the wind in our pinions
Beat us up and afar.

How shrill were our cries,
As we flew from the plain!
Oh that road to the skies,
Beaten up by the rain!

The flails of the storm
Beat my soul from its mesh.
It paled like a mist,
Driven out of the flesh.

It flew through the night
To my mother's warm hand,
But I— I was abroad
With the wind and the sand.

Unhuman and strange,
'Twixt the rain and the stone,
I must flutter and range
Through the dark all alone!

The darkness,
The wetness,
The sleekness,
The fatness
Of shapes in the tempest
Submerged, with no name,
As with laughter and shout

And a clapping of hands
I danced in and out
Or clove in the sands.
As straight as the lightning
I struck and I came —
The storm was the thunder,
And I was the flame.

It was thus that I ran
To the House on the Hill,
When the voice of love
Bade the tempest be still.

Then I gathered me back
From the rain and the sand
To the soul held so close
In my mother's warm hand.

Storm

by Emily Dickinson

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It sounded as if the streets were running,
And then the streets stood still.
Eclipse was all we could see at the window,
And awe was all we could feel.

By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,
To see if time was there.
Nature was in her beryl apron,
Mixing fresher air.

A Line-Storm Song

by Robert Frost

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The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

The Rainstorm

by James W. Whilt

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Here in the deep tangled forest
All is quiet and still,
While far to the west the thunder,
Re-echoes from hill to hill.

And the lightning's flash, ever vivid,
In great gashes knives the air;
The rain comes down in torrents,
A deluge everywhere!

Bathing the heat-sick flowers
That they may bloom once more;
Painting the grass a greener hue,
That grows by our cabin door;

Making the pastures fresher,
For the cows and shepherd's herds,
Making the pools by the road-side,—
Bath tubs for the birds.

Then the thunder peals louder and louder,
Firing its shrapnel of rain.
The clouds charge after each other,
And the drouth is defeated again.

Then through a rent in the clouds
The sun's searchlight casts its ray,
And the Rain-God looks over the valley
And sees the result of the fray.

And as He sees his conquest,
His victory's flag is unfurled,
In a beautiful colored rainbow,—
He is telling all of the world,

What a victory was his, what a triumph!
It's flashed down the milky way,
Then the sentinel stars dot the heavens,
And the dew-drops sound taps for the day.

Squall

by Leonora Speyer

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The squall sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills,
And the startled lake seems to run before it;
From the wood comes a clamor of leaves,
Tugging at the twigs,
Pouring from the branches,
And suddenly the birds are still.

Thunder crumples the sky,
Lightning tears at it.

And now the rain!
The rain—thudding—implacable—
The wind, reveling in the confusion of great pines!

And a silver sifting of light,
A coolness;
A sense of summer anger passing,
Of summer gentleness creeping nearer—
Penitent, tearful,
Forgiven!

Garden Under Lightning (Ghost Story)

by Leonora Speyer

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Out of the storm that muffles shining night
Flash roses ghastly-sweet,
And lilies far too pale.
There is a pang of livid light,
A terror of familiarity,
I see a dripping swirl of leaves and petals
That I once tended happily,
Borders of flattened, frightened little things,
And writhing paths I surely walked in that other life—
Day?

My specter-garden beckons to me,
Gibbers horribly—
And vanishes!

The Thunderstorm

by Eugene J. Hall

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Down the mountains darkly creeping,
Through the woodlands wildly sweeping,
The storm bursts on the land.
The rain is pouring,
The wind is loudly roaring
In tones sublime and grand.
Flashing, crashing, growling, grumbling,
Rumbling, rumbling, rolling, rumbling,
Comes the thunderstorm.

Round and round the birds are flying,
Loudly screaming, sharply crying;
They fear the falling rain.
The windows rattle,
The frightened sheep and cattle
Come leaping down the lane.
Flashing, crashing, growling, grumbling,
Rumbling, rumbling, rolling, rumbling,
Comes the thunderstorm.

Soon the mountain-tops glow brightly,
And the raindrops patter lightly
Upon the roof o'erhead;
The sunbeams tender
Break through the clouds in splendor,
The thunderstorm has fled.
Flashing, crashing, growling, grumbling,
Rumbling, rumbling, rolling, rumbling,
Dies the thunderstorm.

After the Tornado

by Paul Hamilton Hayne

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Last eve the earth was calm, the heavens were clear;
A peaceful glory crowned the waning west,
And yonder distant mountain's hoary crest
The semblance of a silvery robe did wear,
Shot through with moon-wrought tissues; far and near
Wood, rivulet, lield—all Nature's face—expressed
The haunting presence of enchanted rest.
One twilight star shone like a blissful tear,
Unshed. But now, what ravage in a night!
Yon mountain height fades in its cloud-girt pall;
The prostrate wood lies smirched rain and mire;
Through the shorn fields the whirls, wild and white;
While o'er the turbulent waste woodland fall.
Glares the red sunrise, blurred mists of fire!

The Hurricane

by William Cullen Bryant

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LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails;
Silent, and slow, and terribly strong,
The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;
While the world below, dismayed and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast—and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray—
A glare that is neither night nor day,
A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.
To its covert glides the silent bird,
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard,
Uplifted among the mountains round,
And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?
Giant of air! we bid thee hail!—
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale;
How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament,
And fold, at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space.

Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air:
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
You may trace its path by the flashes that start
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart,
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?—'tis the rain that breaks,
In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round,
Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies,
With the very clouds!—ye are lost to my eyes.
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
A whirling ocean that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.
And I, cut off from the world, remain
Alone with the terrible hurricane.

The Hurricane

by Charles Swain

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In the west a line of silver
Seemed from darkness to emerge,
Like the gleaming sword of Azrael,
On the dim horizon's verge:
Deep and deeper frowned the darkness,
Whiter grew that line of fear:
All that gazed knew well the omen,—
Knew the Hurricane was near!

Bowsprit high the billows mounted,
E'en the firmest held their breath;
Thundering onward swept the ocean,
With a darkness grim as death:
Shrouds and stays were rent asunder,
Masts and spars were snapped in twain,
Black'ning downwards rushed the heavens—
Roaring upwards rolled the main.

O'er her bows the foremast splintered,
Blocks and cordage strewed the air;
Headlong down the vessel foundered—
All was shrieking and despair!
'Mid a wild and whirling chaos,
All above me and around,—
Struggling arms and gasping faces,
And the drowning, and the drowned!

The Storm at Sea

by Lydia Sigourney

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The good ship o'er the Ocean
Glides on, while skies are bright,
And rolling waves, right merrily
Propel her homeward flight.

But clouds and angry tempests,
Rush from their prison cell,
The rocky coast frowns dark and dread,
The wintry surges swell.

'Tis night.—Amid the breakers,
The headlong vessel goes,
And groaning, like a wounded man
Strives with its vengeful foes.

Pale grows the boldest mariner,
For scarce the trumpet's cry,
Is heard amid contending blasts
That shake the astonish'd sky.

How fearful is the tumult,
The cry, the shriek, the prayer,
Are mingled with the deaf'ning storm,
In echoes of despair.

But in the lonely cabin
Rock'd by the raging sea,
There calmly sat a beauteous boy,
Upon his mother's knee;

He sang a hymn of heaven,
Then spoke so sweetly mild,
"The Bible saith our Saviour dear
Doth love the little child,—

It telleth of a happy home,
Above the stormy sky,
Mother!—He'll take us there to dwell
We're not afraid to die."

His smile was pure and peaceful,
As the pearl beneath the deep,—
When the booming battle-thunders
Across its bosom sweep.

Hoarse came the words of horror
From men of sinful life,
While innocence, with soul serene
Beheld the appalling strife.

Morn! Morn!—The clouds are breaking,
The tempest's wrath is o'er.
The shatter'd bark moves heavily
To reach the welcome shore.

Hush'd is the voice of thunder,
And quell'd the lightning's flame,
For prayer had touch'd the gate of Heaven,
And answer'ng mercy came.

The Inchcape Rock

by Robert Southey

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No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The Ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The Mariners heard the warning Bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok

The Sun in the heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcpe Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,
And fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape Float;
Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float.

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock,
Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

Sir ralph the Rover sail’d away,
He scour’d the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder’d store,
He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.”

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.”
“Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along;
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,
“Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear;
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

The Storm

by Hannah Flagg Gould

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Wild are the winds! the heavens are dark!
And he is out on a pathless deep;
Who will manage the weltering bark?
Who o'er him will the night watch keep?

God of the ocean, earth and air,
Over the high and perilous wave
Carry him safe, for thou art there—
Thine eye is watching; thine arm can save!

Author of light, the skies unveil,
That the shining hosts, from their lofty arch,
May again beam down on his wandering sail,
As in glory they move on their nightly march.

When he has closed his weary eyes,
Lulled by the billows that harmless roll,
Visions of bliss and beauty, rise
In flowery dreams to the waking soul!

But who shall dream, till the storm is past?
Who 'mid the elements' war shall sleep?
Spirit of mercy, hold him fast!
For he is out on an angry deep!

The Captain's Daughter

by James Thomas Fields

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We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,—
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,—
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring
And the breakers talked with death.

As thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy with his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spake in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

The Tempest

By James T. Fields

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We were crowded in the cabin;
Not a soul would dare to sleep:
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'T is a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers threatened death.

And as thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy in his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer;
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

The Storm

by Alcaeus

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Now here, now there, the wild waves sweep,
Whilst we, betwixt them o'er the deep,
In shatter'd tempest-beaten bark,
With laboring ropes are onward driven,
The billows dashing o'er our dark
Upheaved deck—in tatters riven
Our sails—whose yawning rents between
The raging sea and sky are seen.

Loose from their hold our anchors burst,
And then the third, the fatal wave
Comes rolling onward like the first,
And doubles all our toil to save.

A Contrast

by Thomas Durfee

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Once, in an old and lonely
Farm-house by the sea,
I went to rest with only
Myself for company.

No star the darkness brightened;
Alow the welkin bowed;
It blew, it rained, it lightened,
It thundered long and loud.

The tempest drove the billows
Upon the rocky shore,
And, nestled in my pillows,
I heard them plunge and roar.

The windows creaked and rattled,
The chimney puffed and moaned,
The stout old elms, that battled
Out in the court-yard, groaned.

I dozed while yet I listened;
And lo! the next I knew,
The golden sunshine glistened,
And everything was new.

The cock was crowing clearly,
Cluck-clucked the happy hen,
The robin carolled cheerly,
And sweetly chirped the wren.

I rose with glad emotion
And up the window threw;
Before me heaved the ocean
Its sparkling waters blue.

The skies were soft and tender;
And lovely to be seen.
Impearled with dewy splendor,
The land lay fresh and green.

I breathed an air Elysian;
I thrilled with pure delight;
And nothing but a vision
Seemed that black yester-night.

The September Gale

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

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I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,—
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,—
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground,
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,—
The earth was like a frying-pan.
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a-flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches,—
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—
"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them!
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!

The Snowstorm

James Thomson NOTE.—4. Household gods. An allusion to the belief of the ancient Romans in the Penates—certain gods who were supposed to protect the household and all connected with it. The idea here expressed is, that the Redbreast was secure from harm.

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Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,
At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day,
With a continual flow. The cherished fields
Put on their winter robe of purest white.
'T is brightness all: save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current.

Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits its evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man.

Drooping, the laborer ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them.

One alone,
The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit.

Half-afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is;
Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet.

The foodless wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs,
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind.
Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth,
With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed,
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow

Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind,
Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens
With food at will; lodge them below the storm,
And watch them strict; for from the bellowing east,
In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing
Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains
In one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks,
Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills,
The billowy tempest 'whelms; till, upward urged,
The valley to a shining mountain swells,
Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky

A Sleet-Storm in May

by Madison Cawein

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On southern winds shot through with amber light,
Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white,
The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills,
Waking the crocus and the daffodils.
O'er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh—
The maples sang and flung their banners high,
Their crimson-tasselled pennons, and the elm
Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.
Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,
Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,
Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,
Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew.

With timid tread adown the barren wood
Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood
White-mantled Winter wagging his white head,
Stormy his brow and stormily he said:
'The God of Terror, and the King of Storm,
Must I remind thee how my iron arm
Raised my red standards 'mid these conquered bowers,
Turning their green to crimson?—Thou, with flowers,
Thou wouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!—
Audacious one!'—And at her breast he tossed
A bitter javelin of ice and frost;
And left her lying on th' unfeeling mould.
The fragile blossoms, gathered in the fold
Of her warm bosom, fell in desolate rows
About her beauty, and, like fragrant snows,
Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet,
Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweet
That died there. Lilacs, musky of the May,
And bluer violets and snowdrops lay
Entombed in crystal, icy dim and fair,
Like teardrops scattered in her heavenly hair.

Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain!
Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.—
We should not question such; a higher power
Knows best what bud is ripest or what flower,
And silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

Storm Fear

by Robert Frost

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When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
'Come out! Come out!—
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.

The Snow-Storm

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

Snow Storm

by John Clare

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What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops
To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps
Incessant batter at the window pane,
Making our comfort feel as sweet again;
And in the morning, when the tempest drops,
At every cottage door mountainous heaps
Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops
Untill the beesom and the shovel gain
The path, and leave a wall on either side.
The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide
With new sensations his old memory fills,
When hedges left at night, no more descried,
Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills,
And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.

The boy that goes to fodder with surprise
Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight.
The hedges all have vanished from his eyes;
Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite.
The novel scene emboldens new delight,
And, though with cautious steps his sports begin,
He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow,
Till down he drops and plunges to the chin,
And struggles much and oft escape to win—
Then turns and laughs but dare not further go;
For deep the grass and bushes lie below,
Where little birds that soon at eve went in
With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day
And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.

The Snowstorm

by James W. Whilt

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The snow has started falling,
'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,
The trees bend under their burden,
Shake free, and are draped again.

While I sit here safe in my cabin
Where all is cozy and warm,
I can peer into the future,
And view the woods after the storm.

I can see the deer seeking the low-lands,
In search of their daily food,
I can see the hunter's eyes glisten,
For he knows that the tracking is good.

The lion dogs leap in their kennels,
There is barking and wagging of tails,
The hunter examines his snow-shoes,
And dreams of "kills" and of trails.

The bear trails lead far up the mountain
Where the cliffs are rugged and steep,
And there is some cave in the ledges,
They're beginning their winter's sleep.

They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them,
As they take their Northern flight,
Then again they will seek the hill-sides
Where the sun shines clear and bright.

Now the wild geese honk as they leave us,
Followed close by wind-driven snow;
They are telling all of us trappers,
But, of course, all us trappers know

That whenever the wild geese go homing,
It is time that our traps are set;—
Snow, I have been waiting for you!
You are a welcome visitor—you bet.

On the Prairie

by Ellen P. Allerton

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Out on the prairie—a shrieking storm!
How the pitiless cold, driven from homes and firesides warm,
In its terrible hold,
Here grapples and grips with strength untold!

Miles and miles, and nothing in sight,
Only sweeps of snow—
That under the dust of the gathering night,
Now dimmer grow—breasting the winds that fiercely blow.

Not a friendly light, not a sheltering tree,
On the prairie's breast.
And my failing feet shrink under me!
I am heavy—oppressed
With a drowsy weight; I must stop and rest.

No, I can not go on! Here I lay me down,
While the storm sweeps by;
Press on, if you can, to the sheltering town;
In peace let me lie.
I am not cold . . . only sleepy . . . good-by.

Spellbound

by Emily Brontë

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The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

The Snow-Storm

by Anne M. Cooper

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It is fun to sit in the window-seat,
When all outdoors is snow and sleet,
For everywhere I look I see
Things that aren't what they seem to be.

The fence-posts, each with a cap of snow,
Look like soldiers all in a row;
While just over there, the kitchen pump
Looks like a rabbit about to jump.

Down by the gate, that tall white ghost
Is really only the hitching post;
While under the tree, that polar bear
Is only our old rustic chair.

Storm Ending

by Jean Toomer

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Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads,
Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . .
Full-lipped flowers
Bitten by the sun
Bleeding rain
Dripping rain like golden honey—
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.

The Storm Hath Passed

by Margaret Miller Davidson

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The storm hath pass'd by, like an angry cloud
Which sweeps o'er the brow of the azure heaven;
The sun and the earth to its sway hath bow'd,
And each radiant beam from the scene been driven.

All hail to the smile of the cloudless sky!
All hail to the sun as he rides on high!
All hail to the heavens' ethereal blue,
And to nature, when deck'd in her own lovely hue!

It hath pass'd! the storm, like a giant form,
Which summons the winds from their tempest cave;
Which opens a grave in each ocean wave,
And wraps the world in its shroud of gloom.

Oh! welcome the smile of the gladden'd earth!
And welcome the voice of the wood-bird's mirth!
And welcome these varying hues which delight
Like dawn at the close of a wearisome night.

The clouds have pass'd, with the shadows they cast,
And hush'd is the sound of the wind-god's power,
And his deep, wild blast, as the tempest pass'd
Which rang on the ear at the midnight hour.

Oh! welcome the soft, balmy zephyrs of spring!
And welcome the perfumes they silently bring!
And the rosy-tinged cloudlets that gracefully glide
O'er the fair brow of heaven in beauty and pride!

It hath fled in its night, the dark spirit of night,
Which cast such a shade o'er the light of the soul;
It hath fled and died, while the sunset beam
From its surface triumphantly backward shall roll.

Oh! welcome the smiles of a gladden'd heart!
And welcome the joy which those smiles impart!
And welcome the light of that sparkling eye
Which tells that the storm in its dread hath pass'd by!

After a Tempest

by William Cullen Bryant

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The day had been a day of wind and storm;—
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,—
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred,
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;
For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard
About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung,
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry
Flew many a glittering insect here and them,
And darted up and down the butterfly,
That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where
The violent rain had pent them; in the way
Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair;
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay,
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.

It was a scene of peace—and, like a spell,
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell,
And precipice upspringing like a wall,
And glassy river and white waterfall,
And happy living things that trod the bright
And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all,
On many a lovely valley, out of sight,
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When, o'er earth's continents and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun
The o'erlaboured captive toil, and wish his life were done,

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast,
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.
Lo, the clouds roll away—they break—they fly,
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

After the Thunderstorm

by James Thomson

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As from the face of heaven the shattered clouds
Tumultuous rove, the interminable sky
Sublimer swells, and o'er the world expands
A purer azure.

Through the lightened air
A higher luster and a clearer calm,
Diffusive, tremble; while, as if in sign
Of danger past, a glittering robe of joy,
Set off abundant by the yellow ray,
Invests the fields; and nature smiles revived.

'T is beauty all, and grateful song around,
Joined to the low of kine, and numerous bleat
Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale:
And shall the hymn be marred by thankless man,
Most favored; who, with voice articulate,
Should lead the chorus of this lower world?

Shall man, so soon forgetful of the Hand
That hushed the thunder, and serenes the sky,
Extinguished fed that spark the tempest waked,
That sense of powers exceeding far his own,
Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears?

On this long storm the rainbow rose

by Emily Dickinson

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On this long storm the rainbow rose,
On this late morn the sun;
The clouds, like listless elephants,
Horizons straggled down.

The birds rose smiling in their nests,
The gales indeed were done;
Alas! how heedless were the eyes
On whom the summer shone!

The quiet nonchalance of death
No daybreak can bestir;
The slow archangel's syllables
Must awaken her.

Storm and Sunlight

by Siegfried Sassoon

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I

In barns we crouch, and under stacks of straw,
Harking the storm that rides a hurtling legion
Up the arched sky, and speeds quick heels of panic
With growling thunder loosed in fork and clap
That echoes crashing thro’ the slumbrous vault.
The whispering woodlands darken: vulture Gloom
Stoops, menacing the skeltering flocks of Light,
Where the gaunt shepherd shakes his gleaming staff
And foots with angry tidings down the slope.
Drip, drip; the rain steals in through soaking thatch
By cob-webbed rafters to the dusty floor.
Drums shatter in the tumult; wrathful Chaos
Points pealing din to the zenith, then resolves
Terror in wonderment with rich collapse.

II

Now from drenched eaves a swallow darts to skim
The crystal stillness of an air unveiled
To tremulous blue. Raise your bowed heads, and let
Your horns adore the sky, ye patient kine!
Haste, flashing brooks! Small, chuckling rills, rejoice!
Be open-eyed for Heaven, ye pools of peace!
Shine, rain-bow hills! Dream on, fair glimpsèd vale
In haze of drifting gold! And all sweet birds,
Sing out your raptures to the radiant leaves!
And ye, close huddling Men, come forth to stand
A moment simple in the gaze of God
That sweeps along your pastures! Breathe his might!
Lift your blind faces to be filled with day,
And share his benediction with the flowers.

Table of Contents

Before the Storm

Thunderstorms

Tornados

Hurricanes

Ocean Storms

Snowstorms

After the Storm

Before the Storm

Thunderstorms

Tornados

Hurricanes

Ocean Storms

Snowstorms

After the Storm

Related Poems

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