The Hurricane, impassive beast,
Does not concern itself the least
With summer homes and telephones
Harbor boats or human bones,
But destroys all it passes by
Observing with a Cyclops' eye
And brings the sea unto the land
To dash her down upon the sand.
The wind, a wolf pack on the prowl,
Begins to shriek, begins to howl
And tear, maddened, through city streets
Attacking all it comes to meet
With fury in its icy gale
Piercing cold and pelting hail
As rain, like needles, stings and spits,
Thrown by the storm in temper fits.
As swiftly as it came to play,
The storm soon tires and goes away.
The water lies in murky floods,
Its splendor clouded by the mud.
The piercing needles of the rain
Soon die away and cause no pain
The wailing wind loses its will,
Fast falls away, and all is still.