Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/25

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A Rain Dream.
19
 Who is not awed that listens to the Rain,Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists;Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the poolsNo longer glimmer, and the silvery streamsDarken to veins of lead at thy approach.Oh, mighty Rain! already thou art here;And every roof is beaten by thy streams,And, as thou passest, every glassy springGrows rough, and every leaf in all the woodsIs struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slakeTheir thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed;A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,And with the graver murmur of the stormBlend their light voices as they hurry on. Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphereAlone; there is no living thing abroad,No bird to wing the air nor boast to walkThe field: the squirrel in the forest seeks
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