|
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
(6)
(7)
(8)
(9) |
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow.
You
cataracts
and
hurricanoes,
spout
Till you have drench’d our
steeples, drown’d the cocks.
You
sulph’rous
and thought-executing
fires,
Vaunt-couriers
of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick
rotundity
o’th’world;
Crack
nature’s
moulds, all
germens
spill at once,
That makes
ingrateful
man. |