The Storm. By Emily Dickinson

    There came a wind like a bugle;
    It quivered through the grass,
    And a green chill upon the heat
    So ominous did pass
    We barred the windows and the doors
    As from an emerald ghost;
    The doom’s electric moccason
    That very instant passed.
    On a strange mob of panting trees,
    And fences fled away,
    And rivers where the houses ran
    The living looked that day.
    The bell within the steeple wild
    The flying tidings whirled.
    How much can come
    And much can go,
    And yet abide the world!