RAIN IN THE WOODS

When on the leaves the rain persists,

And every gust brings showers down;

When all the woodland smokes with mists,

I take the old road out of town

Into the hills through which it twists.

I find the vale where catnip grows,

Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed;

The vale through which the red creek flows,

Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loud

As some wild horn a hunter blows.

Around the root the beetle glides,

A living beryl; and the ant,

Large, agate-red, a garnet, slides

Beneath the rock; and every plant

Is roof for some frail thing that hides.

Like knots against the trunks of trees

The lichen-colored moths are pressed;

And, wedged in hollow blooms, the bees

Seem clots of pollen; in its nest

The wasp has crawled and lies at ease.

The locust harsh, that sharply saws

The silence of the summer noon;

The katydid that thinly draws

Its fine file o'er the bars of moon;

And grasshopper that drills each pause:

The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean —

Fierce feline of the insect hordes —

And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green,

Beneath the wild-grape's leaves and gourd's,

Have housed themselves and rest unseen.

The butterfly and forest-bird

Are huddled on the same gnarled bough,

From which, like some rain-voweled word

That dampness hoarsely utters now,

The tree-toad's voice is vaguely heard.

I crouch and listen; and again

The woods are filled with phantom forms —

With shapes, grotesque in mystic train,

That rise and reach to me cool arms

Of mist; the wandering wraiths of rain.

I see them come; fantastic, fair;

Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earth

Grow ghostly with their floating hair

And trailing limbs, that have their birth

In wetness — fungi of the air.

O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist!

Still fold me, hold me, and pursue!

Still let my lips by yours be kissed!

Still draw me with your hands of dew

Unto the tryst, the dripping tryst.