POE TRY.
THE STORM WIND.
I AM the Wind, I am the Wind,
The great Voice of the Lord. Then wherefore are ye deaf and blind, And list not what I tell your kind ? Of the deep workings of His mind, Of daedal mazes He designed To wreck again by sword ?
I wail of priests in Anathoth, Of Levi and of Shem.
Or quickly whirring as a moth I sing of brawls 'twixt Hun and Goth, And shake like cones of Ashtaroth, Or whisper of old Khem.
I flute of half-gods in strange guise, Of barrows on high tors, Of Merlin weeping 'neath the rise, Of Pan-pipes skirling to the skies, Of Bacchus and Pentheian cries And primal satyr wars.
I chant of stars that fell to Naught, Of waves I bade subside.
Of continents which lie unwrought, Of tropic isles where Saurians fought, Of hidden mines the Titans sought, Of Krishna and his bride. I thunder of volcanic throes, Of storms in green sea-stills.
Of wild bush-fires and prairie-glows, Of elfin-laughter on pale floes, Of rain-gusts on Caucasian snows And Himalayan hills.
I am the Blast, I am the Blast,
I scourge the maddened flood.
The stellar silence flees aghast, I whip the cosmic gases past, I mould and break, and build and cast,
I shake the world from Vast to Vast—
The Trumpet-Voice of God.
REGINA MIRIAM BLOCH.
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