THE hilltop trees are bowing <br />Under the coming of storm. <br />The low gray clouds are trailing <br />Like squadrons that sweep and form, <br />With their ammunition of rain. <br />Then the trumpeter wind gives signal <br />To unlimber the viewless guns; <br />The cattle huddle together; <br />Indoors the farmer runs; <br />And the first shot lashes the pane. <br />They charge through the quiet orchard; <br />One pear tree is snapped like a wand; <br />As they sweep from the shattered hillside, <br />Ruffling the blackened pond, <br />Ere the sun takes the field again.<br /><br />Bliss William Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-storm-13/
