The Man with the Blue Guitar VIII

The vivid, florid, turgid sky,

The drenching thunder rolling by,

The morning deluged still by night,

The clouds tumultuously bright

And the feeling heavy in cold chords

Struggling toward impassioned choirs,

Crying among the clouds, enraged

By gold antagonists in air--

I know my lazy, leaden twang

Is like the reason in a storm;

And yet it brings the storm to bear.

I twang it out and leave it there.