Riot

Rebuked by every rock
And waving blade of grass,
The pitchfork-wielding trees
And the white-hot wrath

Of the sun’s fiery torch, 
I cower and fall back 
Behind the castle doors,
And make the latches fast; 

And huddle in a corner, 
And pray the storm will pass; 
And cover up my ears
To mute the breaking glass.