  From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float, The waking wind pipes soft its rising note. From out the west, o’er hung with fringes grey, The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay. Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud, It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud; Across the hollow and along the hill It whips and whirls among the maples, till With boughs upbent, and green of leaves blown wide, The silver shines upon their underside. A gusty freshening of humid air, With showers laden, and with fragrance rare; And now a little sprinkle, with a dash Of great cool drops that fall with sudden splash; Then over field and hollow, grass and grain, The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain. |
|
