Above My Head The Great Pine-Branches Tower; Backwards And Forwards Each To The Other Bends, Beckoning The Tempest-Cloud Which Hither Wends Like A Slow-Laboured Thought, Heavy With Power: Hark To The Patter Of The Coming Shower! Let Me Be Silent While The Almighty Sends His Thunder-Word Along--But When It Ends I Will Arise And Fashion From The Hour Words Of Stupendous Import, Fit To Guard High Thoughts And Purposes, Which I May Wave, When The Temptation Cometh Close And Hard, Like Fiery Brands Betwixt Me And The Grave Of Meaner Things--To Which I Am A Slave, If Evermore I Keep Not Watch And Ward.