A Thunderstorm At Bingen Poem by Sheehan Patrick Augustine

The dying sun had sucked his last red beam
From the drunk vine, whose long,
dishevelled tress
Leaned as in maudlin madness to caress
The childlike waves of the great, haunted stream;

Then through the sudden darkness tore the scream
And snarl of thunder; and the choking stress
Made midnight all a wilderness,
Lit by the torches of the lightning's gleam.

And, lo! o'er slumbering village rose the crest
Of the shattered keeps that in the magic flash
Assumed the might and mean of ancient power;
And from their walls by leaguering hosts oppressed,
The mailed and vanquished knights did leap and dash
Into the leath of the storm and hour.