  All day the low-hung clouds have dropped Their garnered fulness down; All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped Hill, valley, grove, and town. There has not been a sound to-day To break the calm of nature: Nor motion, I might almost say, Of life, or living creature; Of waving bough, or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing; I could have half-believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing. I stood to hear—I love it well— The rain’s continuous sound; Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, Down straight into the ground. For leafy thickness is not yet Earth’s naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green. Sure, since I looked at early morn, Those honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs; That lilac’s cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing; Even now, upon my senses first Methinks their sweets are stealing. Down, down they come,—those fruitful stores! Those earth-rejoicing drops! A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops; And, ere the dimples on the stream Have circled out of sight, Lo! from the west a parting gleam Breaks forth of amber light. But yet behold! abrupt and loud Comes down the glittering rain: The farewell of a passing cloud, The fringes of her train. —Caroline Bowles Southey. |
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