Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/26

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Poems.
His hollow tree; the marmot of the fieldHas scampered to his den: the butterflyHides under her broad leaf; the insect crowdsThat made the sunshine populous, lie closeIn their mysterious shelters, whence the sunWill summon them again. The mighty RainHolds the vast empire of the sky alone. I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,The friendly clouds drop down spring violetsAnd summer columbines, and all the flowersThat tuft the woodland floor, or overarchThe streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June,Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves. I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blueIn billows on the lake or on the deepAnd bearing navies. I behold them changeTo threads of crystal as they sink in earthAnd leave its stains behind, to rise againIn pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,
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