I love a storm in early May
When springtime’s boisterous, firstborn thunder
Over the sky will gaily wander
And growl and roar as though in play.
A peal, another – gleeful, cheering…
Rain, raindust… On the trees, behold!-
The drops hang, each a long pearl earring;
Bright sunshine paints the thin threads gold.
A stream downhill goes rushing reckless,
And in the woods the birds rejoice.
Din. Clamour. Noise. All nature echoes
The thunder’s youthful, merry voice.
You’ll say: ‘Tis laughing, carefree Hebe –
She fed her father’s eagle, and
The Storm Cup brimming with a seething
And bubbling wine dropped from her hand.
© Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev