Storm-Drift by Herbert Edwin Clarke

Day and the storm, their long fight over, die
On the red field together, shattered and spent;
The thunder’s roar sinks to a low lament
The wind’s shout to the shadow of a sigh,
And over heaven the mingled armies fly
Headlong, with trailing blood-stained banners rent,
In one wild whirl of rout and ruin sent
To nights abysm beneath the western sky.

Rags of encrimsoned cloud by tempest torn,
Dyed with day’s blood, fierce shapes that change and shift,
Passions and sorrows and sins in mingled flight;
But sometimes some faint ray of a moon unborn,
Or thro’ the horror of the hurrying drift
A star of Hope on the steadfast brows of night.

From: Clarke, H. E., Storm-Drift: Poems and Sonnets, 1882, David Bogue: London, p. [unnumbered].

Date: 1882

By: Herbert Edwin Clarke (1852-1912)

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