Down comes the deluge of sonorous hail,

Or prone-descending rain.  Wide-rent, the clouds

Pour a whole flood, and yet, its flame unquenched,

Th’ unconquerable lightning struggles through.

Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls.

And fires the mountains with redoubled rage.

Black from the stroke, above, the smould’ring pine

Stands a sad shattered trunk; and, starched below,

A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie.


James Thompson, “The Seasons” (1727)