Storm Worship

The cloud-cymbals make the music of the thunder; The lightning-maid dances to its measure; While the breeze-devotees sing their prayer.

A worship of lunatics, this; God-mad souls seeking peace; Dervishes, whose agony knows no surcease.

No many-color-robed priest is here; No conch-shell's flourish and blare; No frankincense, myrrh, or perfume rare.

A worship of passion and powers; A benediction of liquid flowers Poured through a million silver showers.