The turgid clouds, sour and saturnine,
Bloated with a surfeit of the sea,
Like fat patricians soaked with wine,
Lumber toward us heavily.
The fervent air, gravid with auguries,
Crackling with electric portent,
Gossips with the restive trees,
Spreading rumors of the coming torrent.
We, like the other fauna, stand and wait
Under any shelter proffered by chance,
Forced, like the rest, to accommodate
The whims of element and circumstance.
