A Summer Storm / Duncan Campbell Scott

Paul Harrison, Lightning Storm over Kingston, Ontario, 2011. 

CC BY-SA 4/0. Wikimedia Commons.

A Summer Storm

Last night a storm fell on the world
    From heights of drouth and heat,
The surly clouds for weeks were furled,
    The air could only sway and beat.

The beetles clattered at the blind,
    The hawks fell twanging from the sky,
The west unrolled a feathery wind,
    And the night fell sullenly.

The storm leaped roaring from its lair,
    Like the shadow of doom,
The poignard lightning searched the air,
    The thunder ripped the shattered gloom.

The rain came down with a roar like fire,
    Full-voiced and clamorous and deep,
The weary world had its heart's desire,
    And fell asleep.

And now in the morning early,
    The clouds are sailing by
Clearly, oh! so clearly,
    The distant mountains lie.

The wind is very mild and slow,
    The clouds obey his will,
They part and part and onward go,
    Travelling together still.

'Tis very sweet to be alive,
    On a morning that 's so fair,
For nothing seems to stir or strive,
    In the unconscious air.

A tawny thrush is in the wood,
    Ringing so wild and free; 

Only one bird has a blither mood,
    The white-throat on the tree.

~~
Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947)
from The Magic House, and other poems, 1895

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Duncan Campbell Scott biography

"A Summer Storm" read by Alan Mapstone for LibriVox. Courtesy The Literary Shelf: Two.

July / William Morris

July

from The Earthly Paradise (1870)

Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent
Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees
With low vexed song from rose to lily went,
A gentle wind was in the heavy trees,
And thine eyes shone with joyous memories;
Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou,
And I was happy, — Ah, be happy now!

Peace and content without us, love within
That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain,
Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin,
And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain;
Ah. love! although the morn shall come again,
And on new rosebuds the new sun shall smile,
Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile?

E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat,
But midst the lightning did the fair sun die:
Ah! he shall rise again for ages yet,
He cannot waste his life; but thou and I,
Who knows if next morn this felicity
My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live
This seal of love renewed once more to give?

~~
William Morris (1834-1896)
from Through the Year with the Poets: July 

(edited by Oscar Fay Adams), 1886

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Morris biography

John Sutton, Radbourne: a July evening, 2014. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

The Lodger / Francis Sherman

The Lodger

1.

What! and do you find it good,
Sitting here alone with me?
Hark! the wind goes through the wood
And the snow drifts heavily,

When the morning brings the light
How know I you will not say,
"What a storm there fell last night,
Is the next inn far away?"

How know I you do not dream
Of some country where the grass
Grows up tall around the gleam
Of the milestones you must pass?

Even now perhaps you tell
(While your hands play through my hair)
Every hill, each hidden well,
All the pleasant valleys there,

That before a clear moon shines
You will be with them again!
— Hear the booming of the pines
And the sleet against the pane.


2.

Wake, and look upon the sun,
I awoke an hour ago,
When the night was hardly done
And still fell a little snow,

Since the hill-tops touched the light
Many things have my hands made,
Just that you should think them right
And be glad that you have stayed.

—How I worked the while you slept!
Scarcely did I dare to sing!
All my soul a silence kept —
Fearing your awakening.

Now, indeed, I do not care
If you wake; for now the sun
Makes the least of all things fair
That my poor two hands have done.


3.

No, it is not hard to find.
You will know it by the hills —
Seven — sloping up behind;
By the soft perfume that fills

(O, the red, red roses there!)
Full the narrow path thereto:
By the dark pine-forest where
Such a little wind breathes through;

By the way the bend o' the stream
Takes the peace that twilight brings:
By the sunset, and the gleam
Of uncounted swallows' wings.

— No, indeed, I have not been
There: but such dreams I have had!
And, when I grow old, the green
Leaves will hide me, too, made glad.

Yes, you must go now, I know.
You are sure you understand?
— How I wish that I could go
Now, and lead you by the hand.

~~
Francis Sherman (1871-1926)
From A Canadian Calendar: XII lyrics, 1900

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Francis Sherman biography

George Morland (1763-1804), Outside an Inn, Winter, 1795. Wikimedia Commons.

The Winds / William Carlos Williams

The Winds

flowing edge to edge
their clear edges meeting —
the winds of this northern March —
blow the bark from the trees
the soil from the field
the hair from the heads of
girls, the shirts from the backs
of the men, roofs from the
houses, the cross from the
church, clouds from the sky
the fur from the faces of
wild animals, crusts
from scabby eyes, scales from
the mind and husbands from wives

~~

William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)

from Collected Poems, 1921-1931, 1934

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

William Carlos Williams biography

Blizzard / William Carlos Williams

Blizzard

Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

~~

William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), 1920

from Sour Grapes, 1921

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

William Carlos Williams biography

"Blizzard" read for Readers' Utopia.

North Wind in October / Robert Bridges

XVI

In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;
From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:
The beech scatters her ruddy fire;
The lime hath stripped to the cold,
And standeth naked above her yellow attire:
The larch thinneth her spire
To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.

     Out of the golden-green and white
Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright
In the forest of flame, and wave aloft
To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.

     But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,
As the harrying North-wind beareth
A cloud of skirmishing hail
The grieved woodland to smite:
In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,
Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,
And whistleth to the descending
Blows of his icy flail.
Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,
And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight
He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.

~~
Robert Bridges (1844-1930)
from Shorter Poems, Book V, 1893

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Robert Bridges biography

"North Wind in October" read by Richard Mitchley. Courtesy Richard Mitchley - Topic.

June Rain / Richard Aldington

June Rain

Hot, a griffin's mouth of flame,
The sun rasped with his golden tongue
The city streets, till men and walls shrivelled;
The dusty air stagnated.

At the third noon a wind rippled,
A wide sea silently breaking;
A thick veil of rain-drops
Hid the sun and the hard blue.

A grey garment of rain,
Cold as hoar frost in April,
Enwrapped us.

~~
Richard Aldington (1892-1962)
from Images: Old and new, 1916

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Richard Aldington biography

The Last Storm / Archibald Lampman

The Last Storm

From north, from east, the strong wind hurries down;
Against the window-pane the sleet rings fast;
The moon hath hid her face away, aghast,
And darkness keeps each corner of the town.
The garden hedges wear a heavy crown,
And the old poplars shriek, as night drifts past,
That, leagues on desolate leagues away, at last
One comes to know that he must surely drown.
And yet at noon, tomorrow, when I go
Out to the white, white edges of the plain,
I shall not grieve for this night's hurricane,
Seeing how, in a little hollow, sinks the snow
Around the southmost tree, where a lean crow
Sits noisily impatient for the rain.

---
Archibald Lampman (1861-1899), 1897
from Complete Poems, 1900

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Archibald Lampman biography