
Author’s Note: There are few things I like so well as a good summer storm. I wrote “All the World Grows Quiet” in 2017 as an effort to describe the experience of watching a storm roll in, boom about, and finally dissipate into rain-washed beauty.
All the world grows quiet,
All the sky grows dim;
The wind that wildly weft has dropped,
The sounds that sang before have stopped
And sunk to silence grim.
Now amidst the quiet
Booms a thunder-peal;
Suddenly the spell is snapped
And all the tall green trees are wrapped,
Enrobed with rain surreal.
Sky is heav’ly falling,
Pelting the heavy earth,
Washing down the dust-white road
And burdening with liquid load
The flowers of the firth.
Light has wars with darkness,
Wind and wet ally;
Nothing hid remains unfound—
Every inch of somber ground
Is lit and left undry.
Streams swell into rivers,
Plains plunge into mire,
CRACK! The thunder-charge repeats
And echoes as the water beats
And gathers ever higher.
For hours it abides,
But lo! As hours pass,
One bright’ning beam breaks through the clouds—
The sun at last casts off its shrouds
And shines upon the grass.
The sky has spent its ire,
The rain has done its worst;
The sun now reigns in rightful place
And lends its light with evening grace
To all that was immersed.
And now the sun’s great gift,
Its gift of beauty glows:
Across the sky in one great arc,
And on each leaf, a tiny spark,
Where’er the rain has left its mark
Shine brilliant, rainy bows.
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