Читать книгу Many Gods - Rice Cale Young - Страница 5

I was weary and slept on the Peak;

The air clung close like a shroud,

And ever the blue-fly's buzz in my ear

Hung haunting and hot and loud;

I awoke and the sky was dun

With awe and a dread that soon

Went shuddering thro my heart, for I knew

That it meant typhoon! typhoon!

In the harbour below, far down,

The junks like fowl in a flock

Were tossing in wingless terror, or fled

Fluttering in from the shock.

The city, a breathless bend

Of roofs, by the water strewn,

Lay silent and waiting, yet there was none

Within it but said typhoon!

Then it came, like a million winds

Gone mad immeasurably,

A torrid and tortuous tempest stung

By rape of the fair South Sea.

And it swept like a scud escaped

From craters of sun or moon,

And struck as no power of Heaven could,

Or of Hell – typhoon! typhoon!

And the junks were smitten and torn,

The drowning struggled and cried,

Or, dashed on the granite walls of the sea,

In succourless hundreds died.

Till I shut the sight from my eyes

And prayed for my soul to swoon:

If ever I see God's face, let it

Be guiltless of that typhoon!