Emily Dickinson

An Awful Tempest Mashed The Air

poem 198

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!

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