Poetry Archives

(After Robert Schumann.)


Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July
  Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea:
  Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony
With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.
Shall we not call him Prospero who held
  In his enchanted hands the fateful key
  Of that tempestuous hour’s mystery,
And with him to wander by a sun-bright shore,
  To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly
With disembodied Ariel once more
  Above earth’s wrack and ruin?  Far and nigh
The laughter of the thunder echoed loud,
And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.