With a rosy flame the dawn burns on high, but the fog still broods over the face of the earth; Till the day has caught the fire of the sun, and rolled up the mists higher than the tops of the hills, And has pressed them into a black cloud. The black cloud has begun to knit its brows,-- Has begun to knit its brows, as if reflecting, as though musing upon the place of its birth, As though remembering how the wild winds will drive it before them across the face of the wide world. Then it arms itself with the hurricane and the thunderbolt, with the lightning’s flash and the bow of the cloud. It has taken up arms, and flown abroad, and struck its stroke, and poured itself forth In a torrent of tears, in a flood of rain, over the copious bosom of the earth.