 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
20
A JUNE SHOWER.
How this delicious rain
Brings up the flowers! One might almost say
It rains down blossoms,—for where yesterday
I sought for them in vain,
They lie by thousands on the wet green earth,
Rejoicing in the freshness of their birth.
Brings up the flowers! One might almost say
It rains down blossoms,—for where yesterday
I sought for them in vain,
They lie by thousands on the wet green earth,
Rejoicing in the freshness of their birth.
No harsh or jarring sound
Breaks the refreshing stillness of the hour,—
The tinkling foot-falls of the passing shower
Patter along the ground,—
The swallows twitter gladly from the eaves,
And the small rain talks softly to the leaves.
Breaks the refreshing stillness of the hour,—
The tinkling foot-falls of the passing shower
Patter along the ground,—
The swallows twitter gladly from the eaves,
And the small rain talks softly to the leaves.
Bloom-laden lilac trees,
Their purple glories dripping with the rain,
Shake off the drops in odorous showers again,—
And the small fragrances
Of cherry-blossoms, and of violets blue,
Come balmily the open window through.
Their purple glories dripping with the rain,
Shake off the drops in odorous showers again,—
And the small fragrances
Of cherry-blossoms, and of violets blue,
Come balmily the open window through.
21
With idly-folded hands
The farmer sits within his cottage door,
Watching the blessings which the full clouds pour
Upon his thirsty lands,—
Where written promise by his eye is seen
In visible characters of living green.
The farmer sits within his cottage door,
Watching the blessings which the full clouds pour
Upon his thirsty lands,—
Where written promise by his eye is seen
In visible characters of living green.
Unyoked the oxen stand,
The cool rain plashing on their heaving sides,
And with wide nostrils breathe the fragrant tides
Of breezes flowing bland,—
Then as though sated with the odor sweet,
Crop the new grass that springs beneath their feet.
The cool rain plashing on their heaving sides,
And with wide nostrils breathe the fragrant tides
Of breezes flowing bland,—
Then as though sated with the odor sweet,
Crop the new grass that springs beneath their feet.
Sweet is the gladsome song
Which the young birds sing in the summer time,
The wind's soft voice, the river's wavy chime
Flowing in joy along,—
But dearer far to me the pleasant tune
Sung by the rain-drops in the month of June.
Which the young birds sing in the summer time,
The wind's soft voice, the river's wavy chime
Flowing in joy along,—
But dearer far to me the pleasant tune
Sung by the rain-drops in the month of June.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |