AUGUST GUESTS

By Cale Young Rice

The wind slipt over the hill

And down the valley.

He dimpled the cheek of the rill

With a cooling kiss.

Then hid on the bank a-glee

And began to rally

The rushes — Oh,

I love the wind for this!

A cloud blew out of the west

And spilt his shower

Upon the lily-bud crest

And the clematis.

Then over the virgin corn

Besprinkled a dower

Of dew-gems — And,

I love the cloud for this!