II
Gild, sun, the pendent leaves Silverly dripping, Call the swifts from the eaves Screaming and dipping, Raise the green docks that be To the ground beaten, All the washed earth we see Comfort and sweeten; Till at soft interval On the small flowers, Drops from the thatch-ends fall— Spent are the showers. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.