Ceasing of the Storm

The storm had well nigh gone; no fitful blast
Lifted the weeping willow into heaven,
To let it fall and weep again, downcast;
How often is such fickle comfort given!
How peaceful seem'd the far up floating rook,
Crossing with jetty wing the full white cloud,
As to the blue beyond his way he took;
While, in the grove, a lingering breeze allow'd
The sight to catch, 'mid play of wind and sun,
The uncertain shadows of that woodland nook,
Swallowing the silent shafts of light that run
Along the spider's thread; on nature's book
I love to pore, and mark what soars on high,
Or lurks in bye-paths for the observant eye.