Chapter XLIV

I hold them here; they are no less;
I see them still--the changeful grays
Of threatening skies above the haze--
My hills! that roll long, murmuring miles
Of savage-painted wilderness,
On which the saddened sunlight smiles;
Or, like a fallen angel’s frown--
Severe beneath a burning crown--
Through sombre silvers, that oppress
With clouds its glory, rushes down.

I hear the coming storm again;
Again behold the streaming clouds;
The autumn wind drives down and crowds
Wild sibylline voices through the leaves,
To whispering octaves of the rain:
A wilder wind, vibrating, heaves
Vast music through the rolling woods--
Upon my soul the grandeur broods,
Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,
Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.