English poems. A Spring Storm

I love May's first storms: 
chuckling, sporting spring
grumbles in mock anger;
young thunder claps,

a spatter of rain and flying dust
and wet pearls hanging
threaded by sun-gold;

a speedy current scampers from the hills.

 

Such a commotion in the woods!
Noises cartwheel down the mountains.
Every sound is echoed round the sky.
You'd think capricious Hebe,

feeding the eagle of Zeus,
had raised a thunder-foaming goblet,
unable to restrain her mirth,
and tipped it on the earth.