As the weather seems to have taken a turn for the worst, here is a poem by Emily Bronte that wishes for stormy, dramatic bad weather.
Fall, Leaves, Fall.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
What is your favourite form of weather?