WINTER RAIN.

Every valley drinks,

Every dell and hollow:

Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,

Green of Spring will follow.

Yet a lapse of weeks

Buds will burst their edges,

Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,

In the woods and hedges;

Weave a bower of love

For birds to meet each other,

Weave a canopy above

Nest and egg and mother.

But for fattening rain

We should have no flowers,

Never a bud or leaf again

But for soaking showers;

Never a mated bird

In the rocking tree-tops,

Never indeed a flock or herd

To graze upon the lea-crops.

Lambs so woolly white,

Sheep the sun-bright leas on,

They could have no grass to bite

But for rain in season.

We should find no moss

In the shadiest places,

Find no waving meadow-grass

Pied with broad-eyed daisies;

But miles of barren sand,

With never a son or daughter,

Not a lily on the land,

Or lily on the water.