Classic Poem

Last night we had a thunderstorm in style.
The wild lightning streaked the airs,
As though my God fell down a pair of stairs.
The thunder boomed and bounded all the while;
All cried and sat by water-side and stile, —
To mop our brow had been our chief of cares.
I lay in bed with a Voltairean smile,
The terror of good, simple guilty pairs,
And made this rondeau in ironic style,
Last night we had a thunderstorm in style.

Our God the Father fell down-stairs,
The stark blue lightning went its flight the while,
The very rain you might have heard a mile, —
The strenuous faithful buckled to their prayers.