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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