The stir in the garden says, 'tis going to rain,
Trees shiver, as warned, and expecting the shower,
And thou with book open, who look'st o'er the plain,
Are thy thoughts with the absent and dear at this hour?
Down there, with wings folded, wet, cowering; in shade,
As banished from scenes that she sees with her eyes,
Calls a dove on her mate; her cry fills the glade,
While wistful she looks at the clouds in the skies.
Let it rain: oh hearts lonely and tender that love!
There's so much that revives in the storm and the rain.
Do roses need naught but bright sunlight above?
They bear and they wait: should ye mourn and complain?