  The skies are gray, where far and wide, Beyond the water-willows, The marshes spread their emerald tide Of blossom-crested billows. And on the vague horizon’s rim, In vaporous purple masses, The distant woods show soft and dim Across the lush, green grasses. An east wind stirs the ivory balls Upon the button-bushes; And hark! a hidden rain-bird calls From out the blowing rushes. Within the water, yonder spray Of rosy mallow flowers Turns faint and pale, till not more gray The cloudy heaven lowers. And all the birches’ tender green An ashen hue is growing; While mottled with a silver sheen The ruffled waves are flowing. That turn, and toss, and quiver, The rain, with murmurous cadence, weaves A roundel in the river. It dots the waves with dancing pearls, It gleams, and streams, and twinkles; It sweeps and sinks in silvery swirls, And rings, and sings, and tinkles. The clustering sedges dip and sway, Till, after fitful failing, The sun bursts gaily through the gray, And craggy clouds are sailing Where, southward, in a brilliant sky, As light as any feather, The little moon curves white and high, In token of fair weather.
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