The Storm

Within the pale blue haze above,
  Some pitchy shreds took size and form,
  And, like a madman's wrath or love,
  From nothing rose a sudden storm.
  The blossom'd limes, which seem'd to exhale
  Her breath, were swept with one strong sweep,
  And up the dusty road the hail
  Came like a flock of hasty sheep,
  Driving me under a cottage-porch,
  Whence I could see the distant Spire,
  Which, in the darkness, seem'd a torch
  Touch'd with the sun's retreating fire.
  A voice, so sweet that even her voice,
  I thought, could scarcely be more sweet,
  As thus I stay'd against my choice,
  Did mine attracted hearing greet;
  And presently I turn'd my head
  Where the kind music seem'd to be,
  And where, to an old blind man, she read
  The words that teach the blind to see.
  She did not mark me; swift I went,
  Thro' the fierce shower's whistle and smoke,
  To her home, and thence her woman sent
  Back with umbrella, shoes and cloak. 
  The storm soon pass'd; the sun's quick glare
  Lay quench'd in vapour fleecy, fray'd;
  And all the moist, delicious air
  Was fill'd with shine that cast no shade;
  And, when she came, forth the sun gleam'd,
  And clash'd the trembling Minster chimes;
  And the breath with which she thank'd me seem'd
  Brought thither from the blossom'd limes.