There is no night; the Sun Lives thro’ the night again; The image of the Sun Is burnt upon the brain. O God! he still returns; He slays us in the dust; The brazen Death-Star burns And stamps us into dust. III The air is thunder-still. What motion is with us? Deep shocks of thunder fill The deep sky ruinous; As if, down lumbering large Upon these desert tracts, He had fallen about the marge In cloudy cataracts. And spot by spot in dust The writhing raindrops lie, And turn like blood to rust— Writhe, redden, shrink, and dry. A Land where all day long, Day-long descanting dirge, The heavy thunders hang And moan upon the verge; Where all day long the kite Her querulous question cries, And circles lost in light About the yellow skies; And thou, O Heart, art husht In the deep dead of day, Half restless and half crusht, Half soaring too away. Day-long the querulous kite Her querulous question cries, And sails, a spot of night, About the vasty skies. The puff’d cheeks of typhoons Blow thro’ the worthless clouds That roll in writhing moons In skies of many moods, None fruitful; and the clouds Take up the dust and dance A dance of death and shrouds— Mock, mow, retire, advance. IV Where is the rain? We hear The footsteps of the rain, Walking in dust, and, near, Dull thunders over the plain. Cloud?—dust. The wind awakes; The base dust we have trod Smokes up to heaven and takes The thunderings of God. No rain. The angry dust Cries out against the rain; The clouds are backward thrust; The monstrous Sun again. We hoped the rain would fall After the dreadful day, For we heard the thunders call Each other far away. We hoped for rain because After thunder rain is given; And yet it only was The mockery of heaven. He is the lord of us; He will unconquered sink, Red, but victorious, And smoking to the brink. Shout, barren thunders, shout And rattle and melt again! So fall the fates about, So melt the hopes of men. Rattle aloft and wake The sleepers on the roofs, Wild steeds of heav’n, and shake Heav’n with your echoing hoofs. Awake the weary at night Until they cry, “The rain!”— Then take to tempestuous flight And melt into air again. V This is the land of Death; The sun his taper is Wherewith he numbereth The dead bones that are his. He walks beside the deep And counts the mouldering bones In lands of tumbling steep And cataracts of stones. About his feet the hosts Of dead leaves he hath slain Awaken, shrieking ghosts Demanding life again.