THE storm-cloud Roc is passing by,
Stretching across the sunlit sky;
The sun is hid by its outstretched wings,
And the air resounds with the song it sings.
With its beak it pierces the trembling sun,
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Each quill is as large as a water tun,
Its claws flash out with a glittering light,
And the earth grows dark at the dismal sight.
The waters are stirred from their inmost soul,
Their crests grow white at the thunder's roll;
The trees and the leaves in the forest shake,
The limbs of the weary wanderer quake.
But the storm-cloud Roc has left the sky,
And the sun shines again from his throne on high;
The sea and the forest are still and sad,
But the heart of the wanderer is glad.
Z.
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