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On Monday will come the great storm
Which the airy firmament will pour,
We shall be anxious the while,
All who will hearken.
On Tuesday will come the other element,
Heart paining, hard piercing,
Wringing from pure pale cheeks
Blood, like showers of wine.
On Wednesday will blow the wind,
Sweeping bare strath and plain,
Showering gusts of galling grief,
Thunder bursts and rending hills.
On Thursday will pour the shower,
Driving people into blind flight,
Faster than the foliage on the trees,
Like the leaves of plants in terror trembling.
On Friday will come the dool cloud of darkness,
The direst dread that ever came over the world,
Leaving multitudes bereft of reason,
Grass and fish beneath the same flagstone.
On Saturday will come the great sea,
Rushing like a mighty river;
All will be at their best
Hastening to a hill of safety.
On Sunday will arise the pale moon,
In memory of beautiful Arianrhod,
When she opened the Casket of Ancient Spells,
And released the waters of the Eye of the Deep.
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