Hurricane

The summer trees are tempest-torn,

The hills are wrapped in a mantle wide

Of folding rain by the mad wind borne

Across the country side.

His scourge of fury is lashing down

The delicate rankèd golden corn,

That never shall rear its crown

And curtsy to the morn.

So my proud spirit in me is sad,

A wreck of fairer field to mourn,

The ruin of golden hopes she had,

My delicate rankèd corn.