That bird who so beseeches? And see! on the balsam's balls, And leaves of the water-beeches— One blister of wart-like galls— No raindrop falls. My shawl instead of a bonnet!... Though the woods be soaking yet, Through the wet to the rock I'll run it,— [Pg 35] How sweet to meet i' the wet! Our rock with the vine upon it,— Each flower a fiery jet— Where oft we've met! 2 They meet. He speaks. How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain! And where the leaves brim over How fragrant is the lane! See, how the sodden acres,
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