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"What do you want here?" he cried, apparently surprised that such a ragged beggar was not knocked down by his thunder-bearing glance. "I am here because I was summoned," stammered Raskolnikoff. "It is for the recovery of money lent," said the head clerk. "Here!" and he threw a paper to Raskolnikoff, "Read!" "Money? What money? It cannot be that," thought the young man, and he trembled with joy.
The wind is rising, and the wind and I are rough playmates! What do you say to my voice now? Do you see my foaming lips? Do you feel the rocks tremble as my huge billows crash against them? Is not my anger terrible as I dash your argosy, your thunder-bearing frigate, into fragments, as you would crack an eggshell? No, not anger; deaf, blind, unheeding indifference, that is all.
And it delivers men from all their creeping dreads, from all their dark peradventures, from all their stinging fears, from all the paralysing uncertainties which, like clouds, always misty and often thunder-bearing, have shut out the sight of the divine face.
Again, in the Vedas we have many accounts of the fights of Indra, the sun-god, with dragons and monsters, which mean the dark-clouds, the tempest thunder-bearing clouds, which were supposed to have stolen the heavenly cows, or the light, pleasant, rain-bearing clouds, and to have shut them up in gloomy caverns.
"What do you want here?" he cried, apparently surprised that such a ragged beggar was not knocked down by his thunder-bearing glance. "I am here because I was summoned," stammered Raskolnikoff. "It is for the recovery of money lent," said the head clerk. "Here!" and he threw a paper to Raskolnikoff, "Read!" "Money? What money? It cannot be that," thought the young man, and he trembled with joy.
The Heavens here were ever serene; no Thunder-bearing Cloud obscur'd the Sky; the whispering Zephyrs wanton'd in the Leaves, and gently bore along the enchanting Musick of the feather'd Choir: The Sea here knew no Storms, nor threatning Wave, with Mountain swell, menaced the Ships, which safely plough'd the peaceful Bosom of the Deep.
The wind is rising, and the wind and I are rough playmates! What do you say to my voice now? Do you see my foaming lips? Do you feel the rocks tremble as my huge billows crash against them? Is not my anger terrible as I dash your argosy, your thunder-bearing frigate, into fragments, as you would crack an eggshell? No, not anger; deaf, blind, unheeding indifference, that is all.
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