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.