After Storm

The storm that must have spoiled the apple-bloom,

The rain that kept me housed, the wind that chills

The little birds, the thunder and the gloom,

Return defeated to their far-off hills.

Upon the roof their footsteps pass. A lull

Falls on the noisy weeping of the eaves.

Out is my fire and my book grown dull.

The sun peers out upon the shining leaves.