A tempest moulders in the distant air,
Obscured by darkness, thick with arrogance;
The intermittent rumblings make aware
That night of fright that skirts our sentience.

There is no use in preparations now,
The wrath impending is without withdrawal.
Would only we had heeded nature's vow,
The worst might not descend in disavowal.

Yet here we stand in pooling ignorance,
The very atmosphere our own regret,
For as the price of foresight's hinderance,
We stand to fare this evening sopping wet.

A tempest moulders, filled with looming light.
That we expect it shall not ease this night.