RAIN ON THE HILL

Now on the hill

The fitful wind is so still

That never a wimpling mist uplifts,

Nor a trembling leaf drop-laden stirs;

From the ancient firs

Aroma of balsam drifts,

And the silent places are filled

With elusive odors distilled

By the rain from asters empearled and frilled, And a wild wet savor that dwells

Far adown in tawny fallows and bracken dells.

Then with a rush,

Breaking the beautiful hush

Where the only sound was the lisping, low Converse of raindrops, or the dear sound Close to the ground,

That grasses make when they grow,

Comes the wind in a gay,

Rollicking, turbulent way,

To winnow each bough and toss each spray, Piping and whistling in glee

With the vibrant notes of a merry minstrelsy.

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