The Storm
By Alan L. Strang
The rough old Mr. Storm
Is whirling, swirling past
He makes the treetops bow their heads
And trembles at his blast.
He never stops to think
Of the damage he may do,
He's always rushing in and out
And hitting, batting you.
He pushes big, black clouds
Against the mountain tops;
The rain and hail comes rushing down
In large, round crystal drops.
The storm will soon be over;
See the rainbow in the sky.
The birds will sing on airy wing,
And the bright sun shine on high.