Emily Dickinson

An awful Tempest mashed the air

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!